One Week
by Claudaujay
Summary: On Monday, Hachiman woke up thinking that the week to come would be as monotonous as ever. By Friday, five different girls had confessed to him. Needless to say, he has a big decision to make... (Revised version of Tuesday posted, with pt.2 included)
1. Monday

_**On Monday, Hachiman woke up thinking that the week to come would be as monotonous as ever. By Friday, five different girls had confessed to him. Needless to say, he has a big decision to make...**_

 **Author's Note: The only thing I've previously written for Oregairu is a oneshot, and since I've essentially developed an unhealthy obsession with the anime, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I embarked on a substantial project.**

 **Basically, if all goes as planned and I don't lost inspiration, there will be seven chapters to this story. Each will be a day in the course of a single week. They will all transpire from Hachiman's perspective and will feature a confession from five different girls, them being Haruno, Kawasaki, Yui, Yukino and Iroha in no particular order. On Saturday, he'll accept one of the girl's confessions, and Sunday will be devoted to reaction/happy fluff. :)**

 **Since music is my go-to route to inspiration, here is my playlist for the fic in case you feel like having a listen. Most of them are just classic or contemporary love songs. Or musical tracks, because one can never have enough musical theatre, and some RATM to boot-**

 **I Loves You Porgy by Nina Simone,**

 **Eet by Regina Spektor,**

 **Seasons of Love from Rent,**

 **At Last by Etta James,**

 **I Promise by Radiohead,**

 **Love Came By from Jane Eyre**

 **Everything Has Changed by Ed Sheeran/Taylor Swift,**

 **Too Many Mornings from Follies,**

 **Bulls on Parade by RATM,**

 **Microphone Fiend (cover) by RATM,**

 **That's basically all the background required. Hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

 **One Week:**

 **Monday**

Many novelists start a work of fiction with their protagonist waking up. It's a beginning that's as typical as they come, which will no doubt elicit a somewhat deserved eye roll from a reader before they proceed to convince themselves that the person who recommended it must have had _some_ reason to do so. Of course, having experienced many a disappointment in my time as result of Zaimokuza-related suggestions, I'd be happy to vouch for the fact that the majority of books with a cliched beginning will also have a cliched set of characters, a cliched but suspiciously predictable twist and a cliched romance, before topping off the reeking pile of cliche with a cliched conclusion that leaves you not with a feeling of satisfaction, or at least catharsis, but emptiness. Emptiness deriving from the thought that then slowly begins to consume you: did I _seriously_ just waste however many hours reading that crap?

Here we arrive at yet another, in my opinion, perfectly valid justification for reading light novels. Even the most reprehensible of the genre, which aren't exactly at a premium, will always have those glorious details that persuade you to brave the worst and stick with the plot. The most prominent of these is, of course, female characters drawn with a flourish, and when I saw flourish I mean feminine assets so large and pronounced it makes you ponder whether their owner would be physically capable of standing up straight. There is no doubt that any sane straight men is lying through their teeth should they claim that such enticing illustrations don't capture their attention. Not in an intellectual sense, which will probably be their main reason for sniffing and turning away, but in an instinctive masculine sense. Personally, I'd much rather read a bad novel with, ahem, physically stimulating aspects, than a bad novel that was just boring and gratingly ostentatious.

Of course, even I, whose standards are according to Yukino "so low they could win first prize at a limbo competition", have a limit to my tolerance of poor writing. For instance, being a cultured man I have a deeply rooted appreciation for a well written tsundere character, but a harem situation is overstepping the boundaries into a mine field of sheer, inescapable literary repugnancy as far as I'm concerned. They exist solely for the solace and self-gratification of the reader, and though there will always be a place for this kind of bottom of the barrel scraping entertainment, at least from the perspective of someone who also appreciates his fair share of non-exploitative publications, there is far too much of it cluttering up Japan's precious bookshops nowadays. Like all decent human beings, I'm opposed to the ideals of fascism, but had I been an inhabitant of Nazi Germany at the time of their regular book burning sessions, I might not have protested as strongly if harem-based stories were the first to be exposed to the flames.

Oh, and here's another factor in my passionate defense of the light novel format: cliches become cliches for a reason. Whoever the lucky man was that struck gold in beginning his story with the phase "Once upon a time" would've been chuffed, because in all fairness, it's frighteningly effective. That famous opening not only sets the scene for a classic fantasy yarn, but also immediately grabs the listener or reader by the scruff of the neck. It's the countless imitators that ruin a personality type or plot set up, and forever sentence it to the hellish label of trope.

Therefore, I have no shame in beginning my recount of the week that changed my high school days with the protagonist, obviously Yours Truly (then again, I'm not much of a protagonist- maybe "antihero" is more appropriate?), being disturbed from his blissful, undisturbed Sunday night slumber by the screech of his younger sister.

 _'Wake up!'_

My mind was abruptly yanked from the mindboggling universe of my continually bizarre dreams (this one had seen me pitted against the Blanks in a No Game No Life episode) (1), and it wasn't happy about this at all. I groaned with an irritated reluctance and promptly shut my eyes again, hoping that, if I only denied the prospect of returning to school hard enough, our rotten education system would simply cease to be.

'Pretending the school shut or burnt down overnight won't get you anywhere! Oh, and I made pancakes for my favourite Onii-chan! Ooooh, that must've been _really_ high in Komachi points!'

'At this stage, even mentioning Komachi points is, in itself, low in Komachi points,' I grumbled.

She gave no indication that she'd heard from outside the door, and soon her footsteps could be heard on the stairs as she returned to the kitchen, all the while whistling the melody of a shitty J-pop artist that was, apparently, "all the rage". Typical Komachii- obliterating all my hopes and aspirations, and whistling while doing so. Then again, I probably shouldn't be too derogatory, as she is my life's foremost and only supplier of food, affection, social encouragement and, most pivotally of all, cuteness (excluding the positively angelic Totsuka). If she didn't have this silver lining to her otherwise abrasive personality, I'd probably have disowned her by now. Or at least attempted to. She can be Freddy Krueger level intimidating when she wants to be (2).

It usually takes about ten to fifteen minutes to pull myself out of bed, climb haphazardly into school uniform and then drag myself downstairs. On this occasion, it was leaning towards the latter, but I take comfort in the fact there will always be a breakfast prepared with eggs and flour intermixed with love (God, sometimes I make _myself_ nauseous) awaiting my hasty arrival. My stomach roared in anticipation as I sat down at the table, readily accepting my pancakes. With a flourish of cutlery, half of it was already being digested in the bottomless pit that is my stomach.

Komachi is an expert at burrowing into her Onii-chan's heart, to the extent I'd claim she was comparable to the subterranean monstrocities in a certain 80s B-movie (3). One of her most efficacious methods of digging was knowing exactly the right kind of food to make, and when. I had an irrepressible sweet tooth, so pancakes slathered with syrup were a regular on the breakfast cafe menu. Her cooking was a necessity for us, thanks to my own ineptitude and the more-often-than-not missing paternal figures of our corporate slave parents. Standing beside the oven frantically stirring batter, adorned by a colourful apron, she almost seemed paternal herself. The man who determined to steal Komachi from me would end up either a very lucky man, or dead at the hilt of a bloody kitchen knife wielded by your vengeful narrator.

Huh. Maybe I'm beginning to understand why everyone insists I'm a siscon.

'So, how are things going with the Service Club?'

'You ask me that every single Monday.'

'That's because you never answer the question properly, Onii-chan,' she responded, with a signature pout.

I swallowed down a mouthful of shovelled pancake before sighing. My loner senses were tingling, warning me that avoiding the question or feigning ignorance wouldn't be an option this time. A Komachi who wanted something was a dangerous Komachi.

'Not much, to be brutally frank. We're as dysfunctional as ever. On the rare occurence that we actually receive a request, me and the Ice Bitch squabble about every single decision while Airhead attempts to play the role of mediator-'

'Hachima-'

'Even if said request is Tobecchi level moronic, we're apparently obligated to accept _every single one_ because of someone's rich philanthropist mindse-'

' _Hachiman,_ I'm not asking about that. I'm asking about your boyfriend prospects!'

Ah. I take back all my hyperbolic praise of Komachi. Her recurrent pestering habit of intruding on the few friendly relations I could boast of was grating to an extreme. After being forced into it by Hiratsuka-sensei, the other woman so maliciously determined to intrude on my otherwise undisturbed life, I'd striven to keep her oblivious of the Service Club with the knowledge she'd undoubtedly see it as another oppurtunity to play the role of matchmaker for me. My Komachi-deduction skills were as accurate as ever. Ever since learning of my forced but not exactly unpleasant daily company, it had become a cornerstone of our conversations. I suppose I should mention that I use the word "conversation" very loosely; they mostly consisted of her relaying various manipulative schemes that would result in a date situation before I eventually got irritated with her petulance and returned to the safety of my room. It was made even worse by the fact that, being as comfortable in social situations as she was, her and the girls had become something akin to friends. If either of them met each other and then proceeded to converse about who knows what, I often found myself adopting the role of the third wheel (no change there then).

'We both know that my "boyfriend prospects" are like Yukino's breasts: pitifully nonexistent.'

'That's rude, Onii-chan,' she scolded easily. 'Besides, they're not nonexistent. They're just... developing.'

My eyebrows rose. 'Are we talking about me or Yukino here? Cause if you're yuri inclined (4), then that's _fine.'_

Komachi rolled her eyes, but due to her being preocuppied with the batter, I managed to escape the punches she usually liked to rain down on me if I got on her nerves. Despite her diminutive figure, she was fully capable of leaving a bruise or two on my skin, even through my usual black blazer. I suspected this was also partly due to my, uh, inexperience in the muscle and general fitness department, but we'll let that slide.

After a minute or two of silence, she came to sit in the spot across from me on the table and, having served herself, also made a start on her breakfast. Between mouthfulls, she'd glance up at me with an astonishing lack of subtlety as if she wanted to say something, before carrying on as she had been.

Just as I was about to ask her if there was a problem with my appearance she was just too polite to make me aware of, she finally mustered up the courage. 'Onii-chan...'

'Yes?' I said impatiently.

'... I know you might not want to hear this. Sometimes you pretend to be so dense, and you have no _idea_ how annoying it is, but...' She hesitated, before ploughing on, 'Yui and Yukino... you must realise that they-'

'We'd better get going for school,' I interrupted sharply, standing up with the accompaniment of the chair leg scraping on the floor. 'Hiratsuka will have my head if I'm late again.'

I was already turning away, but Komachi's frustrated sigh was perfectly audible. It only served to increase the speed of my footsteps towards the door.

I opened it with a disquieting creak my parents had never bothered to amend. 'Get dressed. I'll be waiting for you outside.'

And suddenly, I was standing outside in the lashing chill of a February Monday morning in Chiba, staring blankly at the overcast sky. There wasn't a speck of blue or fluffy white to be found. Just a dull, overwhelming grey.

In truth, I felt like coward. Had I not always considered it futile to, when an object of frustration or anxiety settles down in your path, turn away or attempt to go round its circumference rather than facing it head on? Of course, if an easier route made itself known you can be assured of the fact I'd be first to take it (such is my _incredible_ work ethic), but in most situations, procrastination can never and will never be an effective solution. Komachi's words, and indeed the words and implication she'd left unspoken, hung over me, suspended like stalactites in a cavern. And at any moment, they're precarious grip on the dripping walls above could shatter.

Yui Yuigahama. Yukino Yukinoshita. If there was anyone in my life I'd deem myself comfortable enough with to address by their given name, providing the feeling was mutual of course, it would be this unlikely pair. That's most certainly not a statement I make lightly: no one addresses me by my given name except for my family to avoid the confusion of an entire household referred to as "Hikigaya". Of course, I doubt either of us would have the gall to break the walls of subtext and complicating _feeling_ surrounding us. All three of us were suspended in mid air. Stranded in the dulldrums. No one moving forward, no one moving back. Every day at the Service Club summoned another inkling of doubt from within the recesses of our minds. The thought that, in our denial and refusal to progress our strained, bittersweet friendships, we were losing what made us want to progress in the first place. Was what we had genuine? Was what we have genuine? Was what we wanted genuine? The answers to all my queries only seemed to be retreating away from my grasp instead moving within reach.

Girls. In essence, they were part of my species. They spoke the same language as I did. They communicated with the same gestures, the same glances that my own gender did. So why were they always so difficult to understand?

Take Komachi as an example. No matter how many times I nagged her about the issue, she continued to be just as slow getting out the door as she had been for years. I blame the parents.

'Hurry up!'

* * *

Human beings are, for some utterly inconceivable reason, obsessed with routine. With balance. With a structured, easy, unasssuming way of life. Those that attempt to rebel against the regular status quo, paradoxically, fall into a routine of rebelling, therefore making the entire exercise counterproductive. I am not so desperate for power in my own life that I have resorted to adolescent delinquency. I accept that society, youth and people are abhorrent, and I strive to elevate myself above mundanity by setting myself apart from my false counterparts at school. The wonderful life of loner- I truly could not be more proud that I follow the example set by all my angsty predecessors.

However, despite the fact I freely concede my hatred of the commonplace riajuu lifestyle, there is undeniably a sort've innate comfort in familiarity. For example, a regular day in the life of Hachiman Hikigaya is breathtakingly easy to define: after waking up and enjoying the pleasures of a Komachi prepared breakfast, we cycle to school and suffer through home-room, suffer through tiresome and clearly unplanned lessons (seriously, most teachers are as disillusioned with life as me and don't even bother putting in effort, the hypocrites), then suffer the insults of Yukino at Service Club only to return home for more suffering, this time manifesting in the form of homework. Fuck the starving, poverty stricken kids in Africa you see in charity adverts. _I'm_ the one whose really struggling. Seriously world, get some perspective.

Currently, my general purpose school day was stranded within the third of these stages. Although homeroom was, for the most part, a complete waste of time, and I wouldn't feel an inkling of sadness if I never had to worry about my attendance record again, it was in fairness one of the less stressful parts of my day. My technical knowledge of music was limited, and my talent for it even less so, but there's truly nothing more therapeutic than plugging in your headphones and enjoying some anime OPs. Having said that, there was absolutely nothing therapeutic about the band I was currently listening to. They're one of the only western bands that I like- they're powered by revolutionary rapping, hip-hop inspired drum beats and guitar riffs so infused with testosterone any male who heard them would struggle, and ultimately fail, to resist the urge to break out into brain shattering head banging (5). Anyone as gloriously anti-establishment as Zack de la Rocha and Tom Morello are bound to capture the attention of any loner, and I, the self-proclaimed king of my kind, was no exception.

But the driving use of an F sharp octave (6) didn't distract me from the other means of occupying my time I often engaged in during homeroom. Namely, human observation: one of the most celebrated (by myself only) talents in my arsenal of 108. This was truly the ace in my hand. If I were a Torterra, this would be my Earthquake (7). Incidentally, the fact that move only had 10 pp in the games, in particular Diamond, was quite literally the bane of my existence as a Sinnoh trainer. Especially when it came to battling Cynthia.

But that's a topic for another time and place. What's important is that the usual clique divisions of Class 2F were, on that Monday, just as stark and noticeable as the sexual tension between Yui and Yukino.

...

Okay, maybe that analogy doesn't entirely ring true. But in the words of Martin Luther King, "I have a dream", and god-dammnit is it a sweet one.

Everything was orderly and in their accepted place. As Morello's wah wah pedal burst forward with face melting consequences (8), my eyes flickered over to Hayama's group, situated on the far left side of me by the window. The subtleties, or rather lack thereof, of their group dynamics were clear as day in the positions which they adopted. Hayama Hayato. If I were the king of loners, then he was the king of riajuu. We were polar opposites. He was the definition of "pretty boy", what with the high cheek bones, the sweeping blonde hair and blue eyes that many a girl had drowned in the overwhelming charm of. Oh yeah- he was also the best athlete at the school (captain of the soccer team and all that jazz), and his grades weren't shabby either, beating me by some distance even in my best subject, Japanese. His sickeningly nice persona matched his looks, mostly because both aspects, and indeed _all_ aspects of the Prince of Soubu High, were irritating to the extreme. Like seriously, rom-com gods. It's unfair that one man should have so much going for him. Spread the love a little, would you?!

Nonetheless, I take solace in the fact I feel no envy towards him regarding his friendships. The occasions where one of his clique had come to the Service Club, seeking assistance on a social misshap that usually revolved around him, were numerous. Surperflous, even. I'd begun to lose count. The greatest indication of the true nature of their disgusting, vile, wholly artificial group was the chain mail incident that had come to close to obliterating their social ties permanently. Sometimes, I genuinely wondered how he slept at night; was he really unbothered by the undeniable insincereity of the connections he claimed to so dearly treasure? Of all the congenital annoyances concerning Hayama, this was the one that grated my nerves to such fine strippings they could probably be used as a topping at a Michelin-star restaurant. A guy as popular as him would experience no difficulty should he strive to abandon his current "friendships" and forge some new, true, _real_ still he persisted, seemingly unconcerned with the delicate fragility of his social life, and how this fragility could make itself bitterly known at any given moment. All it would take was one of them, unwilling and unsatisfied with the status quo, to knock them all off the knife edge.

Currently, they were whittering away about the same topics they'd been whittering away about since our very first day of attendance at Soubu High. Well, I use the pronoun "our" with the assumption that they'd readily exclude me from any form of grouping, as thanks to Yui's dog and an abnormally fast moving car I'd typically managed to miss that. Thankfully, I'm not the kind of outcast who stills clings desperately to the hope of social acceptance, like a certain pitifully armless space opera protagonist did to that weird telecom in Empire Strikes Back (9). I'm fully aware that me and Hayama's clique will forever be at odds with each other, and not just because we share no common ground, personality traits or interests. From my perspective, it's about moral high ground. And, referring to the same sprawling film saga as I did previously, possessing the high ground means victory is a mere formality.

Except for Darth Maul. That guy got it bad.

You could even say the situation left him in _two places,_ am I right lads?!

...

Well, at least I make myself laugh.

But bad jokes and unadulterated loathing- for your face, your voice, your clothing (10)- aside, the one silver lining of the unfortunate truth Hayama wasn't about to die any soon was that his group made for easily accessible and oppurtune test subjects in my ongoing social investigation. Scientists will only investigate something if they have no prior knowledge or experience with that something, thus making it perfectly justifiable that I should carry out mine on friendship. What exactly makes a friend? What was the point by which you could declare yourself someone's friends? And what were the conditions that would allow you to maintain this status? Imagine providing accurate, statistically backed up evidence for such questions at a TED talk! I'd secure the Nobel Prize in days, and my name would be reverred across the globe. Albert Einstein? Isaac Newton? Stephen Hawking? Take fucking notes, bitches. They'd rename an element in my honour- Hikigayaminium. They'd probably have to create a prestigious new award for scientific achievement in my honour, just to _try_ and encapsulate the galaxy-esque scale of my intellect and all round brilliance. "And the winner of 2029's Hachiman award goes to..." etc etc.

Of course, this career route was just an alternative to that of my true ambition: being a house husband. Worldwide glory and acclaim was one thing, but leeching off my talented wife's bank account with the pretence of it being part of my job? I think we'd all make the same choice.

But I digress. Essentially, Hayama and co were my lab rats, and you can believe me when I say I'd have absolutely no hesitation in authorising their extermination. So far, I'd managed to derive a list of checkpoints by which one could assess their "friendship level", so to speak. They were as follows:

1\. To be friends, you must interact with them on a regular basis.

2\. To be friends, you must be comfotable enough to talk to each other about any subject under the sun, even if said subject seems monumentally retarded.

3\. To remain friends, the connection between you must be true to your feelings. Sorry to keep harking back to the same word over and over again, but here it comes. It must be genuine.

Therefore, if we're judging on the various data and evidence recorded from Hayama's clique alone, I can only come to one conclusion. Friendship is a social construct. It is a myth. It simply doesn't exist. We are all single, solitary specks of dust in a universe far greater than ourselves. Life, in its very essence, is futille. And we are totally alone. Have a nice day!

But again, if judging from the Hayama data, I can also make a perhaps even _more_ controversial statement. By my criteria, I'm actually one third of the way to being friends with Miura Yumiko.

I know. Baffling, isn't it? But alow me to explain.

Due to my days of resting my arms on the desk, with headphones plugged in to maximise the standoffish odour, many just assumed I used homeroom as a window of oppurtunity for extra sleep. But thanks to how brilliantly I'd mastered the intricate art of tilting my head ever so slightly to the side, a select few had come to realise this assumption was false. Sometimes, my classmates just so happened to glance in my vague direction at that exact moment when I'd chosen them as my next point of obersation, thus resulting in eye contact, a burst of awkwardness, and then breaking of said eye contact. There were a select few that garnered my attention more often than others, and one of them was Miura Yumiko.

Her Highness the Fire Queen was, to a certain extent, more complex in character than her counterparts. Though she was still one of the foremost contributors to her clique's malignant vacuosity, there were times when she didn't appear interested in their group's conversations at all and would resort to occupying herself with an iphone. Then again, she was probably utilising said device as means of being sociable with other riajuu, so the silver lining was rather thin. Besides, her apparently unrelenting crush on Hayama was a fatal nail in the coffin of our friendship, which had only really been a possibility in the first place. But the glimmer of palpable dissatisfaction, of disappointment, that became visible in her emerald irises as Hayama spent his attention on someone she deemed unworthy was... I suppose, a little fascinating. Enough to persuade my eyes to focus in on her whenever one of these instances arose.

She had a habit of looking away and pouting when someone in her clique was getting on her nerves. Once, I'd thought it the action of a spoilt little riajuu, and all my instincts told me it was silly to project any ideals onto her for fear of being let down. But being frustrated by the company of those around you? That was something I could empathise with more than anything. And so, whenever our eyes did meet, a part of me, almost sub-consciously (my kouhai instincts perhaps?) compelled me to offer her... I dunno. Solace, I guess. The first few times, she'd looked more than a little disgusted that the puny _Hikio_ was trying to communicate with her and expressed this with her eyes accordingly, but then, it seemed to become something of an inside joke. Emerald depths would meet those of a dead fish. The tiniest smirk. And then we'd move on with our lives.

Does that count as interaction on a regular basis?

Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself. Convince myself that a girl like that would even consider looking at me.

I really hate Hayama.

Grunting, I unlocked my phone with the intention of changing the track. This time, my RATM playlist, set to shuffle, settled on a cover of a Eric B and Rakim song (11). Just before the chorus was set to drop, the instantly recognisable figure of a certain pink-haired airhead burst into my line of vision (I'd recognise her, ahem, means of production anywhere). The music was a little louder than usual so I hadn't quite heard her greeting. I quickly removed my earphones, not wanting to seem rude to my Service Club member.

Upon looking up, I knew instantly something was wrong.

If months of interaction with Yui Yuigahama have taught me anything, it's that she is the type of person who will do absolutely anything to avoid exerting themselves. In any way, shape or form. This is a common symptom of those afflicted with condition of being an airhead; they use their idiocy, or at least the veil of idioicy they use to conceal their true intellignece for fear of not fitting in, as an excuse for their lack of effort. Academia. Gym sessions. You name it. Yuigahama, with her almost absurd ditsiness, will ievitably be seen lagging behind everyone else. That wasn't to say she was stupid, per say. Sometimes, she could be startingly perceptive of the struggles of others, no matter how utterly inconceivable they might seem. Indeed, anyone who'd managed to squeeze themselves into Yukino Yukinoshita's good books had, as far as I'm concerned, done enough to earn one's respect.

But there, standing in front of me, was a girl whose figure was hunched from exhaustion. Her breath came out in shallow pants, and her hair, usually held so neatly in a bun, was escaping from its confines in an unruly mess of tangles. It was clear to me she'd just been running. I wouldn't put it past Yuigahama to forget to set her alarm clock before going to bed- the frequency by which she was late for homeroom only seconded that notion- but it was more than just the physical hints that convinced me. Her chocolate brown irises had dilated impossibly wide, and her cheeks were flushed a shade of pink that, had I not suddenly been put on edge, I'd probably describe her as cute enough to fall in love with. She was fiddling with her fingers, something which I'd noticed she always did when nervous, and the expression contorting her face... apprehension? Anxiety? Distress?

Anticipation?

'You... you shouldn't listen to your music so loud, Hikki,' she said, her words streaming out rapidfire. 'S- someone might be trying to tell you something.'

I raised my eyebrows. My Loner Senses were tingling at the back of my skull, dully and reliably enlightening me to the fact that people were looking at me. Or rather, looking at us. It was rare that Yuigahama would come straight to me instead of her clique in the morning; people were aware that we attended the Service Club together, but due to the, ahem, popularity stigma surrounding the name of Hachiman Hikigaya, it was an unspoken rule that only the bravest and most fearless of individuals would express a connection with me in public. The only person I could think of who did so without on a regular basis was Totsuka, but that was understandable because Totsuka transcended what it meant to be human.

I figured I should spare Yuigahama from the ridicule of her peers by putting this conversation to bed quickly.

'Was there anything you wanted?'

For a moment, I swore her blushes intensified. It was definitely a figment of my imagination, but the amount of time it took for her to respond definitely wasn't. An unsettling silence had come to rest over the classroom of Class 2F. I stole a glance sideways, taking in my classmates' reactions. They were just as taken back as I was. Kawaski-something was staring at us without a hint of shame. Tobe, prone to form, looked bewildered. Miura Yumiko was biting her lip, as if she were struggling to contain herself from screaming.

But Hayama's reaction caught my attention the most. His eyes... for the first time, they ever so slightly resembled my own.

'Hikki.'

Yuigahama's tremulous voice diverted my gaze back to her. 'Yeah?'

'Um...' She was fiddling with her skirt. 'Can I- can I talk to you at lunch? There's something I need to ask you.'

I waited for her to give a reason why. To finish. It seemed she already had.

'Sure. Come to my usual spot.'

* * *

I spent the next few hours trying to figure out what the Service Club's resident klutz wanted from me.

The first lesson of the day was Maths. This was a subject that I'd never really paid much attention in, so much so that changing my attitude for a single lesson wouldn't have affected my already abysmal grades that much. So, that granted me a free hour wherein I utilised the 63rd of my 108 talents- Contemplation Hikki. This was a state of intensive, pensive, determinative thought, often bordering on philosophical levels. If I were a Buddhist, I'd probably call this nirvana (this smells like teen spirit, am I right 90s grunge fans? 12). If I were Benedict Cumberbatch, I'd probably call this my mind palace (13). It allowed me to analyse (or overanalyse) whatever my subject was in such great depth that the very essence of reality fell away until I existed solely as a series of ideas, deep within the darkest depths of my far reaching and fast working brain.

...

Okay, so maybe it isn't _quite_ as dramatic as that. Essentially, Contemplation Hikki is when I become so absorbed in thought that I ignore all my surroundings.

"Well, that wouldn't make any difference. It's not like your surroundings care about you anyway," whispers the voice of self-depracation in my ears. Wow. It's really beginning to sound like Yukino Yukinoshita.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Contemplation Hikki.

So, being a person of logic and reason, I decided to approach the question, that being why Yui had decided to approach _me_ , by drawing up a set of plausible answers and taking each of them apart in turn. My first was as follows: a Service Club request. This one was disregarded pretty quickly for a number of reasons, the most obvious being practicality. Why would Yuigahama seek my company alone, intentionally excluding the President of our club and her best friend, if it was related to our volunteer work? Not only that, but it seemed bizarre, even for an imperishably persistent airhead, to waste so much energy in rushing to school for a matter that she could quite easily wait to resolve after school. You know, in a proper club meeting? And believe me, I flagged up several other faults in my logic that were just as if not more damning, but for the sake of my recount's already, uh, meandering pace I'll skip over those.

The second was that Yuigahama had, unfortunately, fallen victim to a _family matter._ Those two words are what modern society has come to use when addressing an area so broad it could mean virtually anything, as long as it's related to one's close relations. Sometimes, it isn't even that. After all, I am a member of my own family (supposedly), so by that logic literally anything that affected me, no matter how minor, was also a family matter, but now I was getting caught up on semantics. A few examples of what this could entail were a health problem so damaging it would severely impact everyone involved's emotional wellbeing, like the contraction of cancer. Or, perhaps a car accident not too dissimilar to one that, coincidentally, Yuigahama had instigated. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Of course not.

Anyway, Yuigahama would've been well aware of my expertise in the handling of family matters, what with how regularly her and Komachi were in contact (sometimes, it seemed like that they never _weren't_ in contact), and so spent the effort to get to school early in order to ask for my advice. There were flaws here as well, obviously. Firstly, I use the term "expertise" very loosely, for though I do indeed have a lot of experience in dealing with obnoxious family members (well, one obnoxious family member), that doesn't mean I deal with them well. I'm not going to lie to you- Komachi knows that she's cute, and knows exactly how to use this to her advantage. How do you think she learnt the art of kawaii-orientated manipulation? Using me as the equivalent of a practice dummy, that's how. Any sane human or alien in any galaxy or universe would think it self-explanatory not to heed the advice of man who was dominated by his imouto, and although she often struggled to prove as much, Yuigahama was indeed a sane human. Oh, and there was also the small matter that Yuigahama didn't have any siblings, and judging from her routine bouts of bubbliness, her home life didn't really scream delinquent.

That left me with only one answer.

I think we all know what it is.

...

That's right. Zombie apocalypse.

I can envision what took place outside Yuigahama's house of resience right now, aided by the powers invested in me by Contemplation Hikki. Upon stepping onto the pavement, she was suddenly charged down by the mangled, reanimated corpse of one of her neighbours. Perhaps, to add spice to the drama of this wannabe HOTD episode (14), it was actually her father (dun dun DUN), thus validating my family matter theory. After being forced to kill the patriarch of the Yuigahama household with a conveniently placed nearby crowbar, she dashed to school to seek my aid for some also conveniently undefined reason. My Maths lesson would then be interrupted by a hoard of the horrific brain-eaters, and I'd be forced to heroically defend my classmates with whatever resources I could scavenge from the supply cupboard. Tobe would die valiantly in sacrifice of my cause, and Hayama would betray us only to be overcome by Yours Truly, and I'd escape down the fire escape with the Miura, Yuigahama and Totsuka- the latter cradled in my arms, obviously- as the only survivors of the Sobu High massacre.

Then the break time bell rang, signalling the end of my daydream. Oh well.

After that was Japanese, the only subject that I consistently paid in attention in, so by the time I was heading over to my self-designated loner spot overlooking the tennis courts, I was still in the dark.

Here is yet another example of the positive correlation between familiarity and comfort. There is absolutely nothing overtly special about this place of the Sobu High grounds, except for the therapeutic silence and gentle sea breezes that reigned supreme in the early afternoon, and the fact that it often serves the role of host to the school's most prominent loner. I can't exactly remember the first time I established this as my lunchtime territory, but I've never shifted or attempted expansion to it since. The other loner hotspots I was aware of in our year were the library, which was soiled by the presence of Zaimokuza, and the roof, where Kawasaki choose to entertain herself (he he). Usually, I would take a seat on the steps, thus granting me an excellent view of the Chiba sights beyond the school fence and whoever may have been playing on the tennis courts. If it was Totsuka, it was a blessing to observe, even from afar. By the way, I should probably give my daily prayer to the powers that be for the existence of that fair, fair beauty.

 _God on high, hear me prayer. In my need, you have always been there_ (15). _And, in response to my and indeed the world's suffering, you granted us the good prophet Totsuka as redemption for our misery. For this, we thank you. Amen, hallelujah, God bless us everyone_ (16).

Sometimes, I add in a few more verses if I'm feeling particularly pious. One day, I intend to compose the psalms of my religion and spread the texts across the world, establishing Chiba as an international pilgrimage site.

But today, Totsuka was nowhere to be found (physically that is- in spirit he's omniscient). Instead, the figure of Yuigahama was disrupting the clarity of the scene by sitting right in my go-to spot.

I paused for a moment, suddenly unsure whether I should approach her. Her back was to me, but I could tell her face, from the way she was clutching her sides with her arms and tapping her feet restlessly on the stone steps, would be a far cry from the cheerfulness I'd come to expect from her. My chest felt oddly tight, as if I were a claustrophic trapped in the darkest of confines.

 _Come on Hikki. It's only Yuigahama. How bad could it possibly be?_

I closed the distance between her, ensuring my face remained neutral.

'Yo.'

Yuigahama gasped and let out a surprised yelp that was, quite frankly, very very very cute. I'd give it a solid 8-10 on my Komachi cute meter, with Totsuka being a 9 and your average embarrassed tsundere character as a 9.5.

Recovering from my greeting, she crossed her arms together and pouted, a light shade of red scorching her cheeks. 'H- how many times have I told you not to sneak up one me, Hikki?! You'll give me a heartattack!'

'Sorry,' I replied, not feeling at all apologetic.

I took a seat beside her.

Aha. As expected, the dreaded beast of social awkwardness arrives right on cue.

Unfortunately, I've yet to develop an 109th talent that helps me to remedy, or at least allieviate, a situation such as this. I was currently doing absolutely everything in my admittedly limited power to avoid eye contact with the girl sitting beside me, and she wasn't helping either. How could something like this happen outside of a light novel, or a romantic fanfiction? Every second or two, we'd steal a glance in the others direction, as if checking to ensure they were still there, and when we inevitably caught each other doing so, Yuigahama would blush bashfully and I'd turn my head away, hoping beyond hope that a hole would open up and send me on an adventure to meet the Queen of Hearts (17). I'd much rather be brutally decapitated for the robbery of tarts than have to endure this sort've cliched rubbish. Seriously romantic comedy gods, couldn't you at least _try_ and make things original?

Well, screw this. I've been exaggerating thus far, but if things carry on as they are I could well become the first person in history to die from clinical embarassment.

'Um-'

'-Hikki-'

'-oh sorr-'

'-no, you go first.'

We both decided to try and break the ice at the same time. Great. If anything, that's made what was once a block expand to sizeable iceberg proportions. And we're the proverbial Titanic, unable to steer cleer of its path.

I opened my mouth to speak, but just as I was doing so, I was suddenly struck by a violent epiphany. In a moment, I knew exactly why I was there. I knew exactly what Yui wanted to speak to me about.

 _Oh no..._

My dead fish eyes widened and, unable to keep a lid on the shame coursing through my veins, I put my head in my hands.

'Oh god...' I moaned through my fingers. 'I know. It's about _that._ '

I couldn't see Yuigahama's reaction, but the time it took for her to respond was all too indicative. 'Y- you do?!' she squeaked, her voice resembling a leprechaun on helium.

I sighed.

 _Damn you, romantic comedy Gods._

I couldn't believe this had happened. I couldn't believe that the same universe that had given us something as holy and beautiful as Totsuka could simultaneously find it amusing to rain down this kind of crap on our easily smashable skulls. My lingering suspicion from earlier had been confirmed: I was indeed living in a fanfic. In this fanfic, the author was performing a stunt that only the most creatively bankrupt attempted to pull. It would dig a literary hole of shame for them so deep that escaping would become utterly unthinkable, unless you were Harry Houdini. Or immortal. Or Spiderman, I gue- I'm getting sidetracked. _AGAIN._ Maybe this is why I appear to be so out of favour with the divine entities messing around on the Earth-model controlling chess board overhead. I was their sacrificial pawn that, for some reason, never quite seemed to die.

I took a deep breath, summoning in all my courage and expelling all my dignity. It was time to resort to my method of dealing with the going when the going gets tough. Begging, of course.

I turned my head back to meet Yuigahama's eyes. Her hazel eyes looked they were about to explode, and her lip was trembling.

 _This is the consequence of your foolish actions, Hachiman. You've traumatised an innocent girl._

'Listen... I know that nothing I say or do can make you forgive me. You're certainly not obligated to. I wouldn't forgive me if I saw the horrors that I know you've seen.'

Unexpectedly, her lip stopped trembling. 'Huh?'

I facepalmed. ' _Stupid_ Hachiman,' I muttered bitterly. 'I knew I should've kept them better hidden. I mean, I suspected you'd seen something when I left you and Komachi alone to buy some more instant ramen. I should've said something, damn it.'

Yuigahama tilted her head to the side. 'Hikki... are you sure we're talking about the same thing?'

I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the fate that awaited me. Then, for the first time in the conversation, I properly met her eyes.

'You saw my collection of Citrus volumes, didn't you (18)?'

The horror that streamed onto her face all but confirmed my suspicions. I'd been so mind-bendingly naive, leaving them in such an obvious, easily observed spot in my wardrobe. Honestly. How dense harem protagonist esque can you get?

Having said that, I'm not exactly ashamed for possessing them. I mean, come on. Deep down, I think we all love a bit of that yuri manga goodness. I'd never even dream of telling her of course, but it helped somewhat that Mei was rather similar in personality to Yukino and Yuzu was a long lost cousin of Yuigahama, excluding the promiscuity aspect. Inserting them into the fictional stepsister's clothes wasn't that-

 _Ahem._ I appear to have spoken a little too freely.

Regardless, it was time to enter the second stage of my begging for forgiveness routine. Getting on my knees in order to make myself appear as pitiable as possible. But just as I was about to initiate part two, I was interrupted.

'Ew ew ew ew ew ew! No! Gross! Pervert! Weirdo! Hikki!'

 _For the last time, my name is_ not _a valid insult._

But excluding annoyance at Yui and Yukino's immature corruption of the good Hikigaya name, my body was overwhelmed by confusion. And just a pinch of hope.

'You mean... you didn't see my Citrus collection?'

'NO!'

...

 _Halle-fucking-lujah._

It's strange how a person's moods operate. One can swing from close to bipola to ecstasy akin to heroin injection in the space of a sentence. Yuigahama had undergone a similarly dramatic change in the same amount of time as well, but I barely noticed. I was too busy praying to the Gods I'd been cursing at the start of the conversation.

Though this did mean that Yui knew I was into a yuri managa series. That could come back to haunt me, but in this instance alone I think optimism is justified!

I sat back against the stone step, suddenly capable of breathing again. _Well, that's a relief._

'So... what was it you actually wanted to tell me?'

The relief was short-lived.

Yui had started crying. And not the type where you're not quite sure whether they're just attention seeking or not. This was a full body, whimpering, tears flowing down your cheeks like lava from Pompeii kind of crying. She seemed to be mumbling something under her breath, but it was so quiet, so heart-wrenchingly _desperate._ I looked on, stunned.

Now. As a loner, my comfort zone is rather small. I'm comfortable when, fitting to my social status, I am not in the presence of a fellow human. I'm comfortable when I'm sitting in homeroom, headphones plugged in, listening to anime OPs or rap rock songs, stealing glances at the others in my class while they're not looking. I'm comfortable when I'm sat at home, watching the weekly air of the anime whose theme I was listening to during the day on the sofa. I'm comfortable when I'm exchanging loving quips with Komachi, or not so loving but friendly nonetheless quips with the Ice Queen. Until then, I suppose a part of me had thought I was comfortable in Yui Yuigahama's company too.

Perhaps that was what ripped my heart into shreds when I saw her in the state she was. I wanted to help her. Rest my arm around her shoulder. Do _something._ But the knowledge that I was the one responsible for her tears cut deep into my skin, fixing me to my seat, helpless and pathetic as I always fucking was.

There and then, I agreed with Yui. I really was gross.

I couldn't even speak. The words were strangled, constricted, entangled somewhere in my voice box.

Slowly, the lovable, confusing, pink-haired airhead looked up. A tear dropped down onto the lapel of her blazer.

'... How can you still pretend you don't know? I thoug- I thought you wanted something genuine.'

I clenched my fists together.

'Hikki, I- I think that I lo-'

'Don't say it. Please.'

It hurt to think about, so I didn't. Emotions pained me, so I tried not to feel. It had never, ever worked.

'I can't answer that right now.'

'Hikki-'

I stared at my feet, unable to look at her. 'Just... just let me think about this, okay? I need... I need... I need time.'

The sound of her tears continued, ringing in my eardrums like echoes in a cavern. I certainly felt like I was trapped in a cavern. I was spinning around desperately, looking for the light at the end of the tunnel that had never seemed so far away, or the wind that would signal a path for me to take. I was clutching at straws, and I always drew the short one.

'One week. Let me have that, Yui.'

She laughed bitterly. 'You've had a year to think about it, Hikki. What difference is a week going to make?'

We sat there in silence for awhile. One person crying, another person who felt on the verge of crying, and a thousand words they wanted to say hanging between them. A sea breeze blew over their heads, as it always did.

At some point, I stood up and begun walking away from her. It was the only thing that didn't feel... shallow, I guess, and I was terrified that if I'd spoken again, it would be something that I regretted. I wasn't really feeling anything, except for a compulsion to run until Yui's head was a tiny speck on the horizon and I could pretend like she hadn't just confessed to me.

 _Yui just confessed to me._

I needed a MAXX Coffee.

* * *

 **1\. An anime I'm watchign atm.**

 **2\. Nightmare on Elm Street**

 **3\. Tremors**

 **4\. Japanese term for lesbian.**

 **5\. Rage Against the Machine, one of my fave bands.**

 **6\. Bulls on Parade**

 **7\. Pokemon**

 **8\. Tom Morello's love of the wah wah pedal.**

 **9\. Star Wars**

 **10\. Wicked**

 **11\. Microphone Fiend**

 **12\. Nirvana**

 **13\. Sherlock**

 **14\. Highschool of the Dead**

 **15\. Les Mis**

 **16\. Christmas Carol**

 **17\. Alice in Wonderland**

 **18\. A yuri manga series.**

 **I must admit, I'd initially planned on writing another scene where Hachiman goes to the Service Club and Yukino reacts to how he responded to Yui's confession, but I thought it would be more realistic if 8man just went home after that point. He's the type to avoid awkwardness and social interaction, tbf.**

 **But yh, plz tell me what you thought of the opening chapter in a review! I really appreciate people's feedback.**

 **Also, a quick word of warning: I wouldn't expect quick updates on this story. I'm a slow a writer at the best of times and I'm entering a month of exams, so the work I'll be able to do will be limited for awhile. Nonetheless, I'll keep at it and post Tuesday in due time!**


	2. Tuesday (both parts)

**Phew. This seemed to take absolutely years, but here we have it. Tuesday completed in its entirety, with revisions made to the original published chapter. Hope you guys enjoy the new stuff! It certainly took long enough to write- I really struggled to find inspiration at times, but y'know, I got there eventually.**

 **Final word count was 13,510, a personal record (yay *party poppers*).**

 **Changes Made:**

 **1\. New monologues added and lots of small changes to the first section. More information added as to the nature of Hachiman and Komachi's argument.**

 **2\. Amount of references reduced. References that** _ **are**_ **included are Japanese based so that Hachiman would be able to make them in the actual light novels. Western references are world famous.**

 **3\. Pt 2 added.**

* * *

 **One Week**

 **Tuesday:**

That Tuesday morning was the first I can recall for years where I didn't wake up to one of my beloved Komachi prepared breakfasts. It felt somewhat like an omen. Like a preordained message from the Gods I'd previously only joked about the existence of, warning that the day to come would be just as farcical and difficult to navigate as the one before it. No Komachi pancakes? No syrup? You're telling me that my sweet tooth is going to go unsatisfied? Surely there's some kind of legislature written into the constitution of the universe itself that prevented such blasphemy. I was half expecting a tornado to hit Chiba and whisk my house off to Munchkinland as soon as I stepped out the door. Kamakura and I would be waltzing down the Yellow Brick Road before noon at this rate (1).

Indeed, it wasn't just the breakfast itself that was missing. My imouto's presence was painfully noted as I sat at our kitchen table with a bowl full of rather unappetising cereal (in both an aesthetic and culinary sense). Staring at the unoccupied seat only made the sting of our argument last night, and the events that had preceeded it, all the more starkly apparent. They couldn't have been more so if Japan's top police interrogation department were forcefully stuffing them down my throat.

It's strange how I can make jokes about that morning now, what with the powers of hindsight to guide me. There certainly wasn't anything humorous about it at the time. I was struck by a feeling far worse than shame, or anger, or regret. There wasn't, and still isn't, any point on lingering on your past decisions. A man by the name of Sondheim once taught me this: "I chose and my world was shaken, so what? The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not" (2). No. The worst part was the helplessness. The idea that was running, sprinting circles around my mind. Taunting me that there was no possible way of amending my relationship with Yuigahama. Komachi wasn't one to hold an grudge, at least when it came to her Onii-chan. Any conflicts we'd had in the past resolved themselves thanks to the near-miraculous medical treatment that is the passing of time. But Yuigahama?

At the end of that week, when I'd worked through every single route of escaping, of fleeing from the burden of choice that had been dropped without warning onto my shoulders. When it had been proven to me that no matter how far we run, or how elusive we strive in vain to become, we can never quite escape our responsibilities. When I'd finally realised that in this situation, the choice I'd always taken, which was _not to choose,_ would not be open to me. When that choice was staring me in the face... I had no idea how she would react.

And that was absolutely, wholly, mind numbingly petrifying.

Maybe Yukinoshita's negative reinforcement of the assumption that I'm a disgusting, perverted lowlife is rubbing off on me.

 _Yukinoshita._

There was another person I was doing my absolute upmost to avoid thinking about. After... what happened at lunchtime, my brain had essentially gone into a kind of total, momentary hibernation. It was the equivalent of a lockdown on a hospital, only here the quarantine was on all sane thought or feeling in my body. Every limb felt like it had suddenly frozen up and gone numb. The two hours of lessons which separated the lunch period from the end of the day blurred together into a strange haze of half-remembered facts and sentences. During them, I'd metamorphisised from the monster of logic into the monster of sheer, overwhelming panic. And, while undergoing a phase of insecurity such as that, attending the Service Club, where the main activity (verbal sparring with Yukinoshita) required intensive concentration which was usually in vain afterwards, would not have been the best plan in world. I'd rate it just below the decision to bomb Pearl Harbour on my shit decisions scale.

Of course, that wasn't the only factor that played into my steering clear of the Service Club room, and by extension its icy president. Just imagining the kind of stuffy, smothering awkwardness that would inevitably be present if I attended was painful to the very core. Yuigahama usually provided something of a bridge in terms of conversation between me and Yukinoshita; the both of us couldn't exactly claim to be socially adept, after all. Our idea of an enjoyable, corteous way of appreciating each other's company was spitting rather personal insults at each other. And with the knowledge that Yuigahama would be going straight home that day, acquired from the classroom rumour mill, it seemed like an accident waiting to happen. I can picture it now: Yukinoshita reluctantly serving my tea, me reluctantly accepting it, us reluctantly exchanging "pleasantries", us very very _very_ reluctantly sitting in complete silence for an hour before leaving the scene as quickly as possible. What fun!

I suppose I should've expected it, but the aforementioned rumour mill had been spinning with a truly devastating conviction. Whispers had been flying around my head in class like a vicious, enraged swarm of wasps. " _Yuigahama confessed to Hikitani... why would she do that... he's so disgusting... I wonder how he reacted..."._ Add an erray of others on top of that, and you can imagine the barrage of passive aggressive gossiping I'd had to grit my teeth and bare. It had been a long time so I'd felt so immersed in that horrible, almost indescribable squirming sensation you feel when people are talking about you. During middle school, it was something I'd been unfortunate enough to be subjected to on a weekly, sometimes daily basis when I did something antisocial like confessing to my so-called crush Orimoto. Of everyone in the school, I was the most practised with dealing with it.

But it still sickened me. Not the effect of the gossiping on me personally. Like I said, I can take the sideways looks and the nattering and the down-talking behind my back. _They_ sickened me. It's such a repulsive, ugly, feral side of human nature, one that we've never quite been able to rid ourselves of since we climbed down from the trees how many millions of years ago. The urge to herd together and unite against a common enemy. The pack mentality that kept us firmly under the identification stamp of animal. The matter between Yuigahama and I had absolutely _nothing_ to do with them. It was personal. If we were as civilised as we claim to be, if we had the standards and consideration of anothers feelings that a liberal society should, then they'd be considerate enough to have empathy for us. To understand that this was difficult. Yet they still insisted on intruding, on glancing and adding their voice to a debate that in no way merited or required their involvement.

It's in moments like those when I realise just how much I hate humans. And whats more, I'm _glad_ that I hate humans. I'd rather be alone and with standards than a riajuu with the standards of a neanderthal.

All I can say is thank you, powers that be, for the very few good ones on this earth. By the way, I might be a narcissistic bastard at times, but I certainly don't consider myself a part of them.

A truly good person wouldn't have left Yukinoshita alone, confused and most probably hurt in that clubroom, and he wouldn't have taken out all his unjustified inner angst on Komachi. A girl who'd done nothing but try and warn him of what was to come. During my bike ride home, I'd replayed the events of the day from square one. I recalled how, when we were downstairs eating breakfast, she'd spoken about the affections that the girls in the Servic... sorry, the _girl_ in the Service Club had for me. I'd ignored her simply for the sake of ignoring, and even gone as far to leave the house, slamming the door on her in the process. It didn't an Einstein or an Isaac Newton to deduce that Komachi had to have known that Yuigahama was planning to confess to me. Why else would she have chosen that day, of all possible days, to try and enlighten me to their affections? I don't believe in coincidences, so that left only one solution. She knew. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd been the person to assuage Yuigahama's anxiety and rush her into confessing to me.

I'd accused her of such, and she hadn't denied it. Cushions were thrown, childish insults we didn't mean were strewn and, to summarise, things had ended in tears. And me slamming a door in her face. Loudly. For the second time that day.

When had I ever argued with Komachi? Somewhere along the line of growing up together, those sort of spats had become a thing of the long distant past. We'd fought over the things that, when a child, were the cornerstones of your existence. Things like who got to play with what toy and when, or who commanded the gaze of our parents at any given time (the answer to the question at _all_ times, of course, was Komachi). Reminiscing on them, I swear I could still feel the animosity smoldering in my veins as we grappled on the floor over the TV remote- I'm sorry little imouto, but the seven year old me had desperately needed that daily fix of 90s anime reruns, most of them of a non-specific blonde haired galaxy defender (3). If I _didn't_ manage to get said fix... well, you can imagine the tantrums. This would result in Komachi throwing her own fit in the corner as a direct result of the Hikigaya seniors paying more attention to me in the hope of soothing my rage. With such combined strength and might, we could've sent Earth back to the Jurassic period, before beginning our conquest of the rest of the galaxy. I doubt that the same cosmic shojo girls I was so obsessed with could've done much to prevent us annointing ourselves the new emperors of the universe.

It's a little ironic that now, I'd reflect on our sometimes violent conflicts with fondness. Even longing. When compared to the endless strife of adolescence, and indeed adulthood, even the memories least deserving of nostalgia can be viewed through rose-tinted glasses. It may surprise you, dear audience, but there was once a time when I wasn't the acerbic, abrasive abomination you see now.

That's right. Once, Hachiman Hikigaya might've been an _optimist._

 _..._

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch. Back then, child Hikki wouldn't of had a grasp of what optimism or pessimism _was,_ let alone be able to adopt a stance on either of them.

I didn't feel like do anything when I was in my bedroom. I tried to read a LN, but that reminded me of the Service Club. I tried to mess around on the internet, but felt strangely guilty. Eventually, I succumbed to a restless sleep.

Even in my dreamscape, I swear I could hear whispers of the words Komachi and I exchanged.

 _'I can't believe you're always like this, Onii-chan! I- I was trrying to do the right thing-'_

 _'The right thing?! You've got to be joking. You've ruined everything-'_

 _'No. You did that, Hacihman. You could've said yes. You_ should've _said yes.'_

 _'I don't need to do anything, Komachi. Get this through your head: I didn't want to join the Service Club. It was an obligation, not a choice. I didn't_ choose _to get close to Yuigahama or Yukinoshita. It just happened. And everytime I go to that godforsaken clubroom, I wish it didn't.'_

 _'Y- you don't mean that, Onii-chan-'_

 _'Oh, I mean it. And here's another thing I mean. Stop messing with my life. I'm fine on my own. I don't need you to tell me what to do, or what to say. Just leave me alone!'_

And then, in what appeared to be no time at all, I was finishing my cereal and getting ready to go to school. Dreading it, obviously, but getting ready nonetheless. The note that Komachi had left me remained on the kitchen table. "Walking to school early, Onii-chan. Hope you wake up without me."

Well done, Hachiman. She really did leave you alone.

I suppose the phrase "Be careful what you wish for", is appropriate in this situation.

I wish I was smart as Rintaro Okabe (4). Then, I could just pop back into the annals of my history and erase all of my past mistakes without even having to worry about it. Screw the ramifications of time travel! Convenience is what makes the world go round.

Now, I had to add Komach to the list of people in need of apologies.

I distinctly remember thinking about a Steam game I'd played recently as I embarked on my usual commute to Soubu High. It was one of the very few gaming suggestions I'd received from Zaimokuza that, to my unending shock, I'd ended up enjoying. Well... more appreciating than enjoying. Hardcore horror fans seem to derive a bona fide pleasure in being frightened, and though I have something of a morbid appetite for the genre and watch it or play it far more regularly than most, I'd prefer to avoid being scared witless if I can. The reason why this game got underneath my skin was because it was advertised as a cutesy, harem MC joins an after school club kind of affair.

What was that? That sounds familiar? Screw you. I'm better than a harem MC. More handsome, dashing, interesting, inconsiderate of other people's feelings etc etc. The difference lay in the fact that my plotline didn't end with a cinnamon bun childhood friend hanging herself, a crazy yandere stealing my biro for, ahem, gratuitous motivations, the pink haired tsundere being beaten to an inch of her life by her abusive father and the obsessive sporty president going on a meta, fourth wall breaking rampage (5).

And now you're asking where the similarity is? Easy.

Like that game, life does not have one single face, or one single tone. Characters you thought you knew- _people_ you thought you knew- could do a complete 180 on your expectations of them, if the changes of their mood commanded so. Was it indulgent of me to wonder if my whole life was a Dan Salvato produced visual novel, or a reality TV show? Perhaps this strange, unexpected twist in my slice of life was just a complication that would resolve itself. Or not resolve itself, if we're running with the "my life was made by Dan Salvato" thing and you wanna spend about five bloody years replaying it to get the good ending.

Why couldn't the game of my life have been made by Game Freak, in association with Nintendo? Being the Kanto league champion sounds a lot more fun than this crap (6). Or better yet, Guerilla Games! Then I could have a sexy, redhead, mechanical dinosaur slaying _badass_ in my life. Granted, I'd be living in a dystopic, tribal ruled world, but let's face it, I'd think we'd all do it for a bit of Aloy (7).

Perhaps an AI apocalypse was actually exactly what I needed to set my life right. At that moment, being attacked by Corrupted Sawtooths was a considerably more attractive proposition than going to school.

* * *

The day went by slowly.

Very slowly.

It was also a day that saw many of the themes of yesterday afternoon continued, and those in our year that were truly proficient in the art of gossiping made sure there were some variations upon these themes to be admired as well. Perhaps they should make bitching behind people's back an available option subject- I'm sure Sagami, Tobecchi and other likeminded retards would love to get at least one top grade. I couldn't fault their effort. They set out about accomplishing their coursework, the assignment being "destroy whatever pathetic strands and threads of a social life Hachiman Hikigaya still has", with alll the tenacity and hunger to impress of a top student. Throughout my lessons, I heard claims that I'd somehow bribed or blackmailed Yuigahama into confessing to me as some contrived attempt of improving my social standing. Had I the guts, I would've pointed out that, if this claim were true, it would've been pretty damn stupid of me to then refuse the confession I'd bought myself, but there you go. Others included elaborate political related conspiracies that somehow had something to do with the fact Yukinoshita's father was on the dietary faculty, and even a few amusingly faux Arthur Miller cries of witchery. Just let me have the name of Hachiman Hikigaya, romantic comedy Gods! (8)

But it was always in the terms of conditions of the loner contract I signed to myself in middle school that I should, as they say, go against the flow. I was different to everyone else, and since no one could give me a valid reason why I should change myself to suit their preferred models of what a human should be, I would remain different. So, in a clear act of rebellion towards their intentions of shoving me into the limelight, I did everything in my power to avoid it. I left classes even faster than I usually did so that no one could approach me. I turned up the volume of my music to max to drown them out. I even went to Zaimokuza's loner spot at lunch, just in case someone divulged to the main body of rumour spreaders that I usually ate over by the tennis courts. He was more than willing to accomodate me in such extrenuating circumstances, and spent the time whittering on incessantly about his latest light novel concept. Not that I minded all that much. I'd much rather listen to the delusions of a chuunibyou than the malicious lies of a wannabe riajuu.

Through these methods, that I suppose my Service Club members would've described as "dirty", I just about managed to survive one of the most stress-inducing school days of my life without any major incidents. In fact, I managed to survive it while interacting with basically nobody, which believe me, was preferable to the alternative. The only ones I had any contact with at all were Zaimokuza, as I said, and Miura Yumiko.

Barely though. It was another one of our moments of eye contact. Only this time, it had nothing of the strange, grinning inside joke feel that it usually did. I mean, I said that assuming that was how she considered it too. She might've been spending those moments thinking I was some kind of obsessed stalker that wanted to kidnap her.

It was just after lunch break. I'd returned from the library and, making sure I kept my eyes fixed on my shoelaces, sat back down at my desk on the right of the classroom. I was a little early, so not everyone had finished their food yet, but the Hayama clique always insisted on doing so inside, so the Fire Queen, the Soubu High soccer captain, the fujoshi permanent-nosebleed Ebina and Yuigahama were the only others there.

It really annoys me that people stop talking about you whenever you come within earshot. First of all, it does the complete opposite to concealing the fact you were talking about them. If you immediately cease upon their arrival, then that only encourages one's suspicion. Second of all, if you're so childish that you feel the need to do so in the first place, then at least muster up the guts to be honest and say it to their face. At least then, it would mean something.

Then again, I suppose if your intention was to hurt someone... and I mean in the sense that you truly, _truly_ had a vendetta against them, not some kind of ridiculous high school grudge. If you're contempt for this person was so palpable in its strength that you wanted them to really feel it. If you wanted them to understand your hatred with the sledgehammer subtlety of a punch to the jaw, then perhaps talking behind their back would be their best way of going about it. The person who said words didn't hurt is quite possibly the biggest retard in the history of the universe. Ever. This is the kind of guy that makes the current American president seem like a level-headed, amicable guy. When someone uses them against you straight to your face, it cuts deep inside. When they use them from behind, there's an ambiguity. An ambiguity to the identity of those words that makes them a whole lot more painful.

This time though, I got the feeling that what they were saying might not have been entirely negative. Unless Yuigahama truly was a seperate entity to what I'd assumed, she wouldn't let her friends talk poorly of me out in the open. Or maybe she was so hurt by what I'd said yesterday-

Nope. Let's not go there. Thinking about that wasn't going to help anyone.

I pretended to be in blissful ignorance of their discussion, and reached into my blazer pocket to bring out my headphones. As I did so, I _just so happened_ to _coincidentally_ peek over to their side of the room.

That was when my eyes met Miura's. Briefly, I attempted to convey something to her. A reassurance, I guess.

Not quite an apology... but I'm not sure how I'd describe it without using that word.

Resignation, maybe.

She didn't reply. Not verbally. The emerald eyes of the Fire Queen I'd been lucky enough to become acquainted with were so expressive. She wasn't a person who was difficult to read. She wore her emotions like the latest fashion, dressing them up, always amplifying them to the max. There was never any middle ground for Her Majesty's subjects. Either she liked you, or she found you annoying. When you weren't in her favour, she was quick to inform you.

But all I saw in her eyes was a blankness. Not quite apathetic, but impassive. Purposefully detached. As if it would be some kind of disgrace to show me how she was actually feeling.

In Yuigahama's presence, it probably would be. Whatever that feeling was.

I felt uncomfortable, so I looked away. I've been doing that a lot recently.

I arrived at the Service Club without Yuigahama, which didn't surprise me. What _did_ surprise me was the burrowing pit of apprehension that was growing in diameter, developing by the second within my stomach as I got there.

Huh. That's weird. For the longest time- almost two years in fact- this little school room in Soubu High had been a place of solace for me. A second home, really. There wasn't anything that special or extraordinary about it. In fact, from the perspective of someone visiting the school, or anyone who didn't know of the extracurricular club activites it hosted, they'd probably think it was identical to all the other little rooms on site and across all the schools of Japan. But through thick and thin, through happiness and despair, I'd come to love the very same chairs that I loathed the sight of when entering any other classroom, or science lab. The type of wooden table standing in the middle of this room, churned out with dozens upon dozens of replicas of itself in some grey industrial centre a hundred miles away, had suddenly come to mean something to me. These tables. These chairs. These _people._

But with a few words, it had changed. Changed from a place of solace to a place of purgatory.

During the walk over (which by the way had seemed to take astronomically longer than usual), I'd attempted to ease my racing nerves by working out the kind of things I could say to Yukinoshita when I got there. I'd settled upon beginning our conversation with an impeccable display of nonchalance- I'd casually steer the conversation towards Yuigahama's confession with a mixture of self-depracating humour and brilliantly integrated social commentary. This would have two direct consequences: first, it would help the Ice Bitch to relax, and encourage the return of our little comedy insult double act. I'd even lower my defenses a little in order to give her an easy verbal victory (yeah, it wasn't like she just ploughed through those defenses when they were up anyway...) and further underline the fact that our relationship didn't necessarily have to change. If we didn't want it to, that is.

For most of the day, I'd been contemplating whether I could've simply avoided the Service Club for a second evening, if only to postpone the chat I knew would have to occur at some point for a little while longer. Thankfully, my recessive inner gene for machoism, which so often failed to rear its head due to... well, basically due to being mostly fictitious, decided to give me a poverbial kick up the backside.

 _"What are you, a man or a mouse?!"_ it had screeched.

 _"Are we talking genetically or metaphorically?"_ I'd deadpanned, exercising my far more dominant sarcasm gene.

 _"Stop being a smartassed prick and pull yourself together! Are you actually scared of a bunch of girls?"_ it retorted.

 _"You mean, are_ we _scared of a bunch girls. First person plural. You're technically a part of me, so anything I'm feeling also applies to y-"_

 _"So you_ are _scared!"_

 _"... Okay yeah, I'm terrified. Any advice?"_

 _"Do what you should've done ages ago, Hachicoward: grow a pair of balls, ask one of them out, and then put the pair of balls you just grew to good use-"_

 _"Okaaay, that is quite possibly the worst piece of advice I've ever received. And also the most mysogynistic."_

 _"Well, what the heck were you expecting? I'm your macho gene, not your inner suffragette gene. Plus, someone has to speak out for your poorly neglected reproduction glands-"_

 _'Okay, we're done here.'_

Uh huh. That was exactly how it went.

Whelp, after that rather surreal interlude, I suppose I should get back to my recount, shouldn't I? Sighing in acquiescence to the unavoidable, I reached forward, twisted the door handle and stepped inside.

'Yo-"

I was interrupted by a gasp of shock, and then a loud, reverberating, ear-shattering crash.

Japan, as a country, is totally enamoured with the concept of formality. The upper classes of our society especially so: everything they say gives the impression of being intrisincally thought out and calculated. They make mundane everyday activities, which most would perform without even batting an eyelid, seem as multi-layered and open to interpretation as religious doctrine.

Take serving tea as an example. Should the instance arise where the Hikigaya household had guests round (hah, _that's_ a common occurence), and one of these guests requested it, I could go and whip up a few mugs of tea in a heartbeat. It may not be the nicest or well measured of beverages to grace a person's lips, but it would still be tea, and drinkable for anyone who wasn't a pretentious twat. Not that I was claiming Yukino Yukinoshita was pretentious. In all honesty, her never-ending bluntness and realistic but still aspirational mindset made her about as far away from pretentious as you could get. But, there is something about the social customs she has been conditioned into thinking are mandatory, and the excessive care with which she performs them, that remains totally unfathomable to me. She brews and serves tea for the Service Club simply because, for whatever reason, it puts her in a place of comfort. It gives her the smallest burst of satisfaction, and she can then carry out her club duties safe in the knowledge that her gesture of formality has been received.

It was precisely because such customs had never been a concern for Yours Truly that I think she sometimes perceived me as impolite. I was grateful for the tea, but the connotations that accompanied the act were lost on me due to the different environments in which we grew up. For me, a cup of tea was just a cup of tea. For her, a well made and well served cup of tea was almost like another form of social interaction. For me, trivialities such as knocking on a door before entering were just that: trivialities. In the world of Yukinoshita, knocking before entering was probably some sort've tribal symbol of respect. Not doing so would be interpreteted as a blatant and intentional invasion of privacy, hence why she complained to Hiratsuka-sensei about entering unannounced.

It just so happened that I'd forgotten of our dear Yukinoshita's urbanity obsession and barged into the clubroom, with the fanfare of the door swinging loudly into the wall just behind, at the very moment she'd been pouring boiled tea into her regular china pot, most likely in preparation for my arrival. The result? Tea all over the carpet (some of which had splashed onto the club president's blazer) and broken shards of sharp-looking china around her feet.

Our eyes locked. Her sky blue irises were wide, and full of a composite of embarassment, shock and more embarassment.

I suppose you could say we were off to a flyer.

'S- sorry!' she practically squeaked, voice nothing like its usual cold, brash tone. 'Ple- please accept my apologie-'

'For what?' I grunted, walking over to her side. 'I'm the one who should be sorry.'

'N- nonsense. I should've been paying more attention to my surroundings instead of of thinking about...' She averted her gaze, and already crimson cheeks intensified in their colour. 'I mean... being so absorbed in my thoughts...'

Are you trying to give me a seizure from over exposure to cuteness, woman?! I'm at enough risk of bodily damage with Komachi, Totsuka and now Yuigahama apparently without your contributions. Your personality type is kuudere: act like it, god-damnit!

Falling just as miserably as Yukinoshita to hide my inner turmoil at the situation before me, I knelt down, intending to pick up some of the broken china. I probably should've expected that she would do so as well. All of sudden, our faces were within inches of each other. From here, it became even more plain just how freakishly perfect the Service Club president's complexion was. Her chalky white skin gave her a look that bordered on celestial; if she were a couple of decades older, and for whatever reason decided it would be fun to lock herself in a mansion with an old bridal gown as her only available clothing, she'd probably resemble a Japanese Miss Havisham (9). She even had the ice cold personality to match, although she wasn't doing a great job of displaying it at that moment. From here, I could see every single one of her eyelashes, trimmed and plucked into order like tiny, curving flanks of soldiers.

Her lips were parted and her breaths came out shallow and quick.

'I'll clear up the china,' I said, afraid that if I spoke too expressively... well, I'd express too much. 'You go get some paper towels for the tea.'

'... Okay,' came her meek response.

She stood up, knees trembling a little, and vacated the room as if pursued by a ghost. Silently cursing, I set about picking up the china piece by piece and dumping it into the bin to the side, and then, not quite sure what to do with myself, awkwardly adopted my customary seat on the right side of the table. All the plans and conversations starters I'd scrupulously figured out had completely gone out the window. And not just from a ground floor level. Oh no. They'd decided to ensure they would be damaged beyond all hope of repair by defenestrating themselves from thirty stories up. Not that I'm trying to implicate they would've been successful plans anyway. In the samy way that a student's academic progress in a subject will always be limited by their natural intelligence and aptitude, I can never hope to perform well on a stage that required good, or at least competent, social skills regardless of how long I'd spent memorising the lines. It was written in the stars that this encounter would be plagued by the quandary its two participants felt when having to interact with others.

Yukinoshita entered with the paper towels clutched between her fingertips, which in turn were held closely against her sides- when feeling out of place, she seemed to almost fold inwards, as if she held the expectation she'd simply go unnoticed if she made herself as small as possible (perhaps it was her own version of Stealth Hikki- Stealth Yuki). We avoided eye contact while she was placing the towels over the soaked patches and used the time to compose ourselves. I couldn't help but notice how boldly the afternoon sun streaming in through the window illuminated the tea stains on her blazer. Yukinoshita followed the school uniform regulations with the dilligence expected of a top student, but like everything else about her, the clothes she wore practically radiated wealth and priviledge. The blazer itself was slightly lighter in colour than the rest of the Soubu High populace, a darkened shade of blue in place of a dim black, meaning that the stains were all the more noticeable.

I may be a shitty person in most respects, but my conduct with women? I'm practically Roger Moore. A gentleman to the bone. I mean, I'm not suave, cool, sweep-off-your-feet handsome or famous for playing everyone's favourite Eton-educated spy (10), but in all other respects we may as well be long lost brothers!

Once she'd finished with the towels, I stood up again and removed my jacket. Her eyes filled with confusion, which quickly turned to horror when she realised my intentions.

'Oh no, I certainly couldn't accept-'

'-Yukinos-'

'-not only is it hugely inappropriate and misleading should anyone come with a request-'

'-Yukino-'

'-but I of course have plenty of blazers just like this at home, s- so to assume this would be issue is, as expected of someone like you, actually rather presumptious-'

' _Yukino.'_

I wasn't in the mood to squabble with her.

I hadn't meant to use her first name but... you do strange things when you're uncomfortable, I suppose.

Thankfuly, she picked up on my not-to-be-argued with tone, and slowly removed the offending item of clothing. I did my very best not to observe how, ahem, translucent her shirt was with the sun behind her. Damn you, giant ball of gas. Can't you shine somewhere else for a change?! Even with a chest as modest as that, Yukinoshita is the unobtainable beauty of every adolescent's daydreams.

I probably shouldn't be too fussy, because if you _did_ shine somewhere else I'd only have a few seconds left to live, but whatever.

One awkward blazer exchange later and we'd reclaimed our seats. In only a shirt, I suddenly became aware of the slight chill hanging over the room. It was November after all, but a part of me still wasn't entirely sure whether it was the fault of the weather or ourselves. I was also made aware of how difficult to describe the sensation of seeing another girl wearing your clothes is. The sight was decidedly unnatural in almost every way imaginable; first of all, Yukinoshita was involved, which was guarenteed to heighten one's feelings of... uh, stirring masculinity. I wouldn't say I was aroused, as such (I'm not quite as bad as Zaimokuza just yet- he'd probably get an erection if a cardboard cutout was wearing his clothes), but there was something... I suppose... basely appealing about the vision of a beautiful girl sitting with a book in her hands, occasionally glancing in my direction and fiddling with the collar of my jacket.

I felt like an eleven year old embarking on the rite of passage that, if we are being truthful, every _real_ man has: watching a hentai anime for the first time. Enjoying something that, if I really was the Roger Moore-elect that I claimed to be a few paragraphs ago, I probably shouldn't be.

'Hikigaya-san...'

Yukinoshita's voice took me by surprise. Its tone still lacked its usual clarity, but boasted a little more resolve. Like me, I figured she'd been working out what to say beforehand. It was like she was reading from a script.

'I just wanted to say that I was extremely disappointed that... despite overwhelming evidence from previous offences that suggested I should've expected as much, you decided not to partake in club activities yesterday.'

... was I actually being lectured right now? After what just happened? I mean, sure, she was absolutely right- I deserved one. It was an exceptional show of cowardice on my part not to attend, and at the very least, I should've called or texted to inform her of my reasoning. I owed Yukinoshita that much. But it seemed a truly gargantuan U-turn to make from the version of her I'd been talking to thus far.

Unfortunately, my sudden inability to speak _period_ spurred her on.

'It's truly disheartening to discover that all my initial presuppositions of the true nature of your internal and external unpleasantness were justified. I'd... I'd thought that over the course of our club sessions together, we'd managed to compromise and... and be mature with each other, and establish a form of understanding. But now I see it was naive of me to assume that a human can come to understand the inner workings of a disgusting, positively bacterial lowlife such as yourself.'

'O- okay. Isn't that a _little_ extre-'

'Furthermore, I'm struggling to comprehend my foolishness when I was so bold as to think that, despite the Hikigaya's status as descendants of not only germs, but invertebrates-'

'-Right, insult me however you want, but _leave my sister out of this.'_

She fixed me with a stare that would've frozen the burning wings of Icarus.

'An insect, a pathogen, _and_ a siscon? How do you live with yourself?'

'Well I'm sorry, but if my ancestral origins are as muddled as you say, then how could my parents have produced something as pure and holy as Komachi? It doesn't make any sense!'

We may be going through a... uh, difficult patch in our relationship, but that didn't alter my love for her.

And shut up you. Yes you, reader. I am _not_ a siscon.

'Neither does the extent of your optic deformities, but I don't complain about that.'

'When have you ever _not_ complained about my eyes-'

'Setting that matter aside, I still haven't be able to make my full point. Before the interruption, I'd been attempting to say that we... that I... thought we'd earnt each other's trust.'

I stopped failing to outwit her and shut up.

Yukinoshita inhaled deeply before ploughing on. 'Nonetheless, I have always striven to conduct myself with the decorum that a contributing member of society should... so I would like to inform you that, no matter anyone else's misgivings, you have my wholehearted and unconditional support on... on...'

She bit her lip.

'... on you and Yuigahama's... relationshi-'

'We're not in a relationship,' I snapped. 'She confessed to me, but I refused.'

We fell silent again.

I'm still not sure why I got so angry when she said that. It was the same as with Komachi the night before. She'd been daring enough to remind me that this tidal wave of emotions that had come and washed me out to sea, submerged me beneath the water, was all too real. If they were talking about it, it was an affirmation. It turned what, with luck, could've been the product of my overactive dreams into something concrete and tactile.

I couldn't leave something like that up in the air.

'I... I didn't mean refuse, as such,' I forced out. 'I asked her to give me a week.'

'To do what? To decide whether Yuigahama is good enough for you?' she replied, with a bitterness that surprised me.

'No. If anything Yuigahama is too good for me. I just needed to... think over my options.'

Yep. Ultimate facepalm moment. Thinking back, I probably couldn't have phrased that any fucking worse.

'Your _options?!'_ Yukinoshita spluttered, her voice caught between pure, unconcentrated disgust and self-consciousness. Her cheeks had to the beetroot red state of before. 'What do you think this is?! Some kind of repulsive, perverted job interview? You'll be asking us questions to determine our suitability next! Is- is this a consequence of the "chooniboo" condition you told me of-'

'-Chuunibyou-'

'-where one can no longer separate fact from fiction? Should I ever rise to a position of power in this country, _Hikigerma,_ you can rest assured that my foremost policy would be the eradication of all light novels from our precious bookshelves, if only to help dissuade the evolutionary development of mutations such as yourself.'

'I know. I didn't mean it like that. I was just trying to say that I needed time to think of what my answer would be.'

Yukinoshita was rarely short of words. As a matter of fact, neither was I. It just so happened that, in that room and on that day, we were both going through what can only be described as a verbal famine.

'And by the way, I'd never do something like that after watching Asami pull out the syringe (11).'

'... I don't know what that's a reference to, but it certainly sounds like the sort of grotesque unpleasantness you'd indulge in.'

'Oh, so now you're insulting the horror genre? Don't worry woman, it's not like its produced some of the most influential, acclaimed and highly acclaimed amongst critics pieces of cinema in history.'

'Stop trying to change the subject.'

'Would you honestly prefer that we talked about my "options"?'

'... No, I suppose not.'

Jesus christ, when exactly did this room become a worldwide hotspot for awkwardness? We're attracting it like moths to a flame. We could probably send a notification to Guinness World Records corporation; people would be so staggered by the Richter level registering amounts of awkwardness and flock to see it from across the globe. Chiba would bite our hands off for the tourism income.

Not knowing exactly where to go next, I decided to go nowhere. In other words, I decided to do exactly what I've been doing for my whole life, and will probaby continue to do for the following 70 odds year of it. But I did do some thinking. There's another thing I've been doing my whole life- thinking and not doing.

I thought about Yukinoshita.

Feelings. Yuck. I'd chosen, or rather been forced, to try and keep a stiff upper lip at all times. I'd learnt through the indelible learning curve of middle school that to convey my emotions was to get ridiculed by the scumbags in class while the teacher stood by and did nothing, or to get pushed into the small pond nearby the school's entrance after hometime (why am I suddenly getting Shoya and Shoko vibes?) (12). I'd learnt that, in order to keep myself the lurking, unnoticeable, phantom-like entity that I wished to be, I needed to keep my mouth shut, be passive and keep speech as tightly imprisoned as a serial killer.

She's a mystery to me. Much more so than Yuigahama, and sometimes the depth and strength of my emotions for _her_ stun me. The designated nice girl of our year was always a little less difficult for me to figure out. I'm good at reading people. At observing, at deducing, at inferring. I knew that Yukinoshita was neither strong, as I'd first assumed, nor weak. I knew that Yukinoshita could be witty and quick to a retort, while also being unsure of herself. I knew that, in some ways, she was similar to how I've always described Komachi. A close stranger. There were a few eccentrities to our personality that meant at times we would only ever be able to empathise with each other, not sympathise, but the eccentrities we shared meant the amount those times were sparse in their frequency.

Yukinoshita was a friend. Whether she was something more or less, I didn't know. Not yet.

But that didn't mean I shouldn't try and find out.

'Do you want to go somewhere after school?'

'...'

'Not as a date. As an apology for not turning up yesterday. We can just, you know, go to the arcade or something.'

She sighed. 'I'm not sure if that would be wise, Hikigaya-san.'

'... I'll win you another Pan-san plushie on the claw machine?'

* * *

 **PART 2 BEGINS HERE**

Claiming that I'd "won" Yukinoshita a Pan-san plushie in the first place was a slight exaggeration. If I recall correctly, I'd asked one of the arcade attendants to open up the claw machine and remove said plushie, thus obtaining the same result I would have achieved had I spent money on tokens, only with less effort on my part and less potentially fatal damage to my good companion Wallet-san. I should've known recalling this incident was foolish. Though it did succeed in persuading the Service Club president to accompany me to the arcade, and in the process accept a part of my so far insufficient apology, it also reminded her of the underhanded methods I'd used in that previous instance. And Yukinoshita had made me painfully aware during our time at the Service Club that she disapproved of my underhandedness.

Therefore, after wading through the final forty minutes of our Service Club meeting with a series of progressively more strained conversations, we'd set off to the arcade.

Little did I know of the suffering I was about to be put through.

I probably should've anticipated it. I had, after all, put myself in a situation of overt and obvious weakness. Yukinoshita and I were unsure of how to treat each other due to factors outside of our influence, and so it was detestably natural that we should fall into our status quo. In said status quo, Yukinoshita would have control, being the upstanding citizen, and I would adopt the role equivalent to that of a peasant, without authority or means of defending himself from oppression. When this peasant did manage to raise his voice in response to the upstanding citizen's exploitation of his labour, it would rarely lead to a revolt or any noticeable change. 9 times out of 10, the peasant would be forced to retreat back into his shell of subservience while the upstanding citizen retook their seat on the throne of authority. And that, my friends, is the way things are.

That doesn't make the way things are any less evil, though.

'I can't believe you're making me do this...' I grumbled, as I inserted what felt like the billionth token into the claw machine.

'Silence Hikigaya-san,' Yukinoshita interrupted. Her arms were crossed, and though she was still wearing my blazer, the sight of her in full intimidation mode was truly something to behold.

Not a good thing to behold, however, if you were on the receiving end of it. As I was. Most of the time.

'I used to be good at this,' I said, as the incessant music started up again.

'You're doing a rather poor job of demonstrating so.'

'I'm out of practice. Komachi hasn't asked to come to the arcade in awhile.'

'Clearly.'

'Are you sure I can't just ask the _nice_ woman who doesn't _bully_ me again-'

'If I'm not mistaken, Hikigaya-san, was I not promised an addition to my Pan-san collection?'

'So you _admit_ you have a collec-'

'Was this promise not made to me a mere hour previously?'

'... Perhaps.'

'Perhaps, you say. Are your numerous aesthetic and personality related deficiencies now spreading to your brain, or were you just attempting to be coy?'

'... Attempting to be coy.'

'Thank you for admitting at least one of your excess of faults, Hikigaya-san. Now, return to the task at hand.'

I scowled. 'Your worse than Hiratsuka-sensei.'

That is just about the lowest, most insulting, most sanity-smashing insult I can muster. Surely this will crush Yukinoshita's resistance!

'And you are worse than tumour cells. At least they have the ability to spread their genes.'

And that makes the score Yukinoshita 126, Hachiman 0. Next time, man. Next time.

Not really wanting to accidentally force eye contact between us, I looked away from the claw machine to the rest of the arcade. It was right after school, so the majority of its regular clients were here in force. Leaderboards had to be made, high scores had to be broken, other gamer's achievements had to be overshadowed etc etc. Since I'd never had the required commitment or perserverance to force myself to the top of any of those leaderboards but still enjoyed coming to this world of flashing lights and anime music, I was forever banished to the hellish lands of the lesser games (coin and claw). That's right. I was essentially grouped, in arcade terms, with the _noobs._ Not that this wasn't where I belonged. Though I'd been coming here for years- though not regularly- and never managed to establish myself on any of the decent games, my ability on them would probably equate to that of one of those annoying, inexperienced young kids.

God. Even amongst the otakus and the gamers, I am the lowest of the low. That's a painful realisation, and I've had many a painful realisation in my day.

' _Better luck next time!'_

Crap. I wasn't concentrating, and wasted another token. The Pan-san plushie I'd been aiming for remained to the ride side of the game's prize pile, teasing me with what Yukinoshita perceived as its excessive cuteness.

Such cuteness is paltry when compared to Totsuka! Yeah, take that Pan-san plushie. Whose the boss now?!

'Stop trying to assert your dominance over an inanimate object and _win me that plushie.'_

Can this women read minds? Are you secretly Haruka Kotoura in disguise? (13)

Wait a minute... does that make _me_ Yoshihisa Mannabe then? Probably best to abadon that train of thought before it derails, crashes and burns.

I inserted token one billion and one into the machine.

'This was not what I'd envisioned when I said we should go the arcade...' I muttered.

'And what exactly _did_ you envision, Hikigaya-san?' came her unflinching response.

Well, let's think about this. I'd actually envisioned our little escapade in three separate stages.

First of all, upon finishing our club meeting without any troublesome requests, Yukinoshita and I would close up shop and make our way off site. Throughout the walk there, we would both be making a conscious and concerted effort to alleviate the impediments that had arisen between us. In other words, I would be expressing the regret I felt for my actions yesterday with far more eloquence than I had done thus far, and Yukinoshita would, in turn, be expressing her commiserations for my plight. Some of that putrid awkwardness would be being filtered out, disappearing from sight like headlights in thickening fog. We might even discuss Yuigahama... we'd be calm and work together to settle on a means of bringing her back to the Service Club.

Second of all, when we arrived at the arcade, we'd start off by laughing about how I'd acquired the plushie last time. Yukinoshita would admit grudgingly that, if she looked carefully enough, the technique I'd used had an element of rotten ingenuity. Both in good humour and good spirits, she'd let me use the same technique to "win" her the plushie once more, and then we'd head off to the rest of the arcade. Perhaps, if lady luck was on our side (believe me, that would be a _radical_ change in fortune), one of the popular arcade games wouldn't be in use, and we could take turns trying to dance in time with the music or win the motorbiking race or gun down the enemy soldiers (the latter was an American import, obviously).

Finally, we would be struck by a lightning bolt of coincidence. Yuigahama Yui would have decided to go against all her previous trends and hobbies, in the process making one of her first ever appearances at the arcade. We'd meet. We'd laugh about the absurdity of the past two days. She'd talk about the confession, admitting she'd been rushed into it by Komachi, and after some good ole friendly banter we'd all live happily ever after.

There are many reasons why I'd only envision such ideal happenings, the most obvious being that a world in which Yukinoshita admitted she was wrong would have to be _very_ different to the one I was currently inhabiting. I have no reason not to believe in the concept of parallel universes, simply because there isn't any evidence to prove or disprove them, but I sincerely doubt there could possibly be a version of reality as wondrous as that. Yukinoshita would have a superioty complex no matter where you existed- it's probably a rule on the same level as the conservation of mass. Or gravity-

 _'Great job! Please collect your prize.'_

Thanks for such a pointless interruption, claw machine. As I was saying, or- wait, what?! Did I just win?!

I bent down on one knee, disbelieving, and pushed open the hatch. Believe it or not, there lay the tormenting Pan-san plushie. It seemed that, in my state of distraction, my hands reverted to muscle memory and effectively won me the game. Everything's coming up Hachiman! (14)

Well... excluding my dormant social life, my job prospects and the fact that Yuigahama has confessed to me. But apart from that, everything was coming up Hachiman!

I collected the plushie and turned to see Yukinoshita still in the same position as before, with her arms crossed. But, no matter how she tried, she couldn't disguise the hunger in her eyes as they settled on the plushie. I'd go as far to describe it as primeval.

'Here you go,' I said, handing it over.

She took the prize, enclosing it within her chest like a mother to a baby.

I swear, she's spent more time blushing today than she has in seventeen years.

'... Thank you, Hikigaya-san.'

I grunted in acknowledgment of the achievement. The slightest of achievements was an achievement nonetheless.

'So... did you have anything else you wanted to do?' I asked.

She blinked. 'Here? Perhaps you hadn't realised, but the arcade isn't exactly one of my preferred choices for a visit. It was your idea to come.'

'I suppose that's true, but since we're here...' I glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see an unoccupied game. 'We could-'

...

...

Oh no.

This cannot be happening. Not here. Not now. Not _ever._

They say that you see your life flashing before you eyes in the moments before you meet an untimely death. That, like many of the sayings and idioms that language adopts, is a load of rubbish. There, I did not see Komachi, or my mother or father, or the times I'd had to spend alone in my middle school's playground, or the car crash on my first day of "attending" Sobu High. I saw nothing of significance. I only felt fear. A goosebump inducing, bone chilling fear.

I carefully nudged Yukinoshita's shoulders. 'Don't. Look. Around,' I hissed.

Confused, she looked around.

Why does no one listen to anything I say!? I just told you not to, woman-

Ah. Great. She's seen us.

To explain my growing panic, I'd witnessed Yukinoshita Haruno enter the arcade. Had we followed the plan I'd worked out at a rather impressive internal speed, that being duck behind a nearby bin and hope beyond hope it provided adequate cover, we might've made it out alive. But no. Yukinoshita failed to heed my advice, and now a woman that I continue to suspect is the human embodiment of the devil is waving at us with excessive cheer and walking over to us.

Oh, I am fortune's fool! (15)

Wait, did I just accidentally imply that Yukino and I were star-crossed lovers destined to take our own lives? Damn it, I take that back.

As she approached, I took in her outfit. Yukinoshita Haruno could probably play the role of a femme fatale in one of those classic murder mystery noir movies very well. Just think about it: she projects the image of a perfect woman, one so convincing that most men are drawn into her spell like sailors to a mermaid. Yet beneath that image, there lies a woman driven by motives that are utterly undefinable. She loves to scheme, and even to a practised eye that's unfortunately growing used to dealing with her antics, it can be challenging to figure out _why_ exactly she is scheming. She is breathtakingly selfish, but sees no need to manipulate in order to improve her standing because her standing couldn't really be any higher than it is already. This is a woman that's adored by everyone who meets her, who is as intelligent as she is beautiful, as sharp as she is charismatic.

There, before me, was Haruno at her most entrancing. She was wearing a tight red crop top that barely extended below her stomach, and effectively highlighted her greater development over Yukinoshita Yukino in the, ahem, torso department. Her denim short shorts left her toned, muscled thighs (she probably goes to the gym every week, as well) exposed, and though most of my sex would be absolutely delighted at such engrossing clothing choices, it left me with the feeling that a mouse might experience, if it were significantly more clever and conscious of its surroundings, while looking at the cheese in a trap. If I allowed myself to observe a moment too long, I'd make the mistake of dozens before me and fall into her snare.

How many have fallen victim to her charms, I wonder? She probably keeps all the hearts she's stolen locked up in jars in a darkened cupboard somewhere. The siren witch of Chiba.

Huh. That kinda has a ring to it. Film production companies, take note! I always knew I had talent. I'll be winning my sixth academy award in a decade or so.

By the way, she's also wearing a pair of absurdly cool aviators. Crap. How did she know I had a thing for girls in glasses?

'Yahallo little imouto, Hachiman!' she greeted, in a tone that vaguely reminded me of Yuighama, only less sincere. 'Off on a secret date, are we?'

I really hated the habit Yukinoshita's elder sister had fallen into, that being addressing me by my first name. Only those that are closest to me are allowed to do that, and you can rest assured Haruno is certainly not a part of those select few. And when I say select few, I mean my family, and basically no one else.

Thankfully, our dislike of her dropping the honorific appeared to be mutual.

'What are you doing here, Nee-san?' Yukino asked finally. Her voice was sub-zero.

'So cold, Yukino,' her sister responded teasingly. She removed her aviators, revealing the bluish grey colour of her irises. 'Anyone would get the impression you didn't like me.'

Yukino just stared at her.

I gulped, understandably uncomfortable. Watching the two Yukinoshita sisters, when unhappy with each other, had a similar feel to if you were an audience member at a Sumo wrestler match, but with passive aggressive sniping inbetween all the physical pummelling.

'But, it's nice to see you're not denying you and Hachiman's relationship anymore,' Haruno continued. 'Tell me, Mr Lone Wolf. When was it that you popped the question?'

'We're not on a date,' I intoned, voice emotionless.

'Then why on earth would you be alone in an arcade? It seems like a date to me-'

'It's none of your business,' Yukino snapped. Her patience already seemed to be wearing thin. 'Also, how exactly did you know we were here? Has mother dropped the pretence and openly asked you to stalk me, now?'

Haruno gaze remained fixed on me. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't stop-your-heart-rate intimidating. Most people would cite darkness, or spiders, or fire as their deepest, darkest fear. Something logical. Me? I think that rich, beautiful and manipulative girls should be high up on every man's "Avoid At All Costs" bucket list. It would certainly save a lot of respectable bachelor's sanity.

'Actually, little imouto, I was waiting outside Sobu High for you and Hachiman,' she said. 'When you both came out alone, I thought it so romantic that I just _had_ to follow and see where you ended up.'

'Why were you waiting for us-'

'You know Hachiman, a little bird in a tree told me something pretty interesting yesterday.'

'Really?' I grunted, resisting the urge to satiate my inner voice of cowardice and hide behind Yukino's back for protection.

'Yes.' That smile remained, painted onto her lips like an old European portrait, but her pupils contracted ever so slightly.

'It told me that Gahama-chan confessed to you yesterday.'

...

How the hell does she know about that?

Sensing my shock, Haruno's lips upturned even higher. 'Taken back, hm? You should remember that you actions have consequences, Hachiman! And rumours spread pretty quickly nowadays.'

She took a step towards for me. Filled with pefectly understandable fear for my life, I took a step back.

'You know, it's bad for a man to cheat on his girlfriend, Hachiman. Especially when it's with my sister. Gahama-chan must be very upset-'

'Enough, Nee-san!'

Our heads, and the heads of a considerable few around us, turned to Yukino. My eyes were widened in amazement. Her fists were clenched, her eyes were narrowed and I swear, if the tangible anger seeping through the air could be taken as valid evidence, her hair would be standing on end like a cartoon character after receiving an electric shock.

It was one of the first times I'd ever witnessed Yukinoshita Yukino being so... expressive. She's similar to me in the sense that we're both practised, sensei-level experts in the ancient ways of restraint. I'd even go as far to say that her skills exceeded my own, and coming from the rightfully coronated monster of logic, lord and high priest of loners worldwide (I have a great number of adorning titles on top of that, but listing them all would take years), such a statement is praise indeed. The sight of emotions on that face is just about as rare as Japan winning a game in a major competitive soccer tournament **(btw anyone else enjoying the World Cup?!)**. Her face is an icy wasteland akin to Antartica, or the North Pole, in its barren, emotionless desolation. The only time I've seen Yukinoshita Yukino in a state of fury was when, on our trip to Destinyland, Miura had carelessly spoken of her preference for Marie the Aristocat in place of Pan-san the panda. By the way, I've an inkling suspicion that Yukino's capacity for romance is bsaically zero, simply due to how much of her heart is occupied by that plushie. She'll probably end up married to it- as an aforementioned religious role model, I'd be more than capable of performing the ceremony.

The younger Yukinoshita sister realised how out of left field this exclamation was quickly. She clutched her stuffed toy a little closer, but the firm resolution in her voice refused to fade.

'Just... I'd appreciate it if you... wouldn't interfere, Nee-san,' she corrected. 'Hikigaya-san and I are attempting to sort out our fee- w- work through a difficult situation. We just... need some time alone.'

I shifted my eyes from Yukino to Haruno. My skin was beginning to crawl. A confrontation had been exactly what I'd been trying to avoid through this outing, and now the thread of my carefully woven plan was beginning to unravel.

My discomfort only increased at the sight of Haruno's reaction. In place of her usual false cheer and brimming enthusiasm was an emotion that seemed rather more genuine- usually, I'd admire suh a show of honesty, but here it only served to fill me with apprehension. She had an expression of deep, disdainful vexation, as if Yukino were just a tiny fly, buzzing around her ears.

Suddenly, she leaned in.

'Go and play with your _teddy bears,_ little imouto. The adults are talking.'

In a flash, Yukinoshita Yukino's burst of resistance crumbled. Her ego, her image, her bullish confidence melted like wax exposed to a furnace, revealing the figure of a lost, little teenage girl. If there were ever a time I was certain that my assumption of her strength had been mistaken, then it was here.

She couldn't even respond, and neither could I. I desperately wanted to reach forward, to offer some of the reassurance she required, but Yukino had already begun her retreat. She moved through the crowds, twisting in and out of arcade machines and glasses wearing otakus, befoe reaching the automatic doors of the arcade.

And then, she was gone. Blink and you would've missed it.

The proverbial fly I'd mentioned had been swatted.

I turned on Haruno, surprising myself at the anger in my veins. I may struggle to admit our strange, bewildering connection, but Yukino and Hikigaya Hachiman would, in a ideal world unbundered by social standards and standings, be categorised as friends. It was natural for a friends to feel compassion and sympathy for each other, and I was feeling just that in bucketloads. I'd been aware of Yukino's struggle for authority within the dynamics of her family for awhile; I often joked that Komachi was the ruler of our household and I was rock bottom (which, depressingly, wasn't exactly untrue), but my own complaints seemed rather shallow when stood face to face with Yukino's struggles. She was trapped in an environment of lies and deception and underying unpleasantness, epitomised with a frightening, pinpointing accuracy by Haruno.

'Was that really necessary?'

Haruno kept staring at the closing automatic doors. 'Yes, I think so. Yukino has always insisted on being bothersome- it's inevitable she'll get called out for it on occasion.'

'I'm sorry, but you criticising someone for being bothersome is like the Otaku Murderer criticising me for my conduct around women.'

She finally shifted her gaze... Okay, now I'm _really_ beginning to empathise with Yukino. Note to future self: do not engage Yukinoshita Haruno in impromtu staring contests, unless you're looking for a quick and cheap method of suicide. This is probably how Jesus felt as he was laid down on the crucifix.

But instead of unleashing the same toture treatment on me as she had her sister, Haruno burst out into hysterical laughter.

Weird. I was struggling to see anything even remotely funny about this- hey, that's kinda how I felt after watching Hetalia: Axis Powers (16).

'Oh, Hachiman...' she said, wiping her eyes. 'You really should consider stand up comedy.'

'Thank you, I guess.'

'No problem.' All of a sudden, she was taking a step closer, eyes glinting. 'I think, _Hachiman,_ that's partly why I find you so interesting.'

Such a show of blatant feminine flirtatiousness might've unsettled and scrambled my nerve endings in one of first encounters, but I was slowly beginning to build up a Haruno defensive wall. Not a very thick or effective wall, but a wall nonetheless.

'And... dare I say it...' she continued, invading my personal space with all the ease of Germany to Poland, '... attractive?'

Yep. The wall just crumbled.

Annoyed that I was still falling for such cheap tactics, and doubly annoyed after the humiliation of my Service Club counterpart, I turned away from her. The smirk on her face indicated that she noticed my blush, however.

'Is there anything that you want, in particular, or are you just trying to be annoying?'

'Why? Do you find me annoying?' she asked, not sounding very bothered by this.

'Yes. Immensely, in fact.'

'Oh, I don't think that's true. All you men are the same, in the end. Walking piles of hormones, dressed up as being "civilised".'

If what she said weren't unbelievably and kinda scarily true, I might've protested.

'You're not even going to deny it?'

'I don't make a habit of lying.'

'You're beginning to sound like Yukino. Who, incidentally, lies constantl-'

'Haruno...'

I sighed, rubbing my eyes with my fingers. There's something incredibly vexing about watching a plan you've formulated, and then attempted to carry out accordingly, fail miserably. Source: me. At the beginning of Soubu High I'd planned to make friends and live a fulfilling life. We all know how well that turned out.

But jokes aside, Haruno was not the kind of person you wanted to find yourself in the company of when not in the correct frame of mind. If I didn't have such superb control of my emotions, I'd probably have lashed out at her already. So far, she'd insulted both me and my friend (who was also, of course, her imouto) before proceeding to play on my stupid, naive adolescent heartstrings with all the skill of a virtuosic harpist. As a result, I was seriously considering breaking the old age, unspoken but still widely obeyed mandate of "a boy should never hit a girl".

I would never have _actually_ hit her, of course. Why, you ask? Simple. One, I'm a no good, dirty rotten, fish eyed coward. Two, if I _weren't_ a no good, dirty rotten, fish eyed coward, then she'd still be hugely more powerful and influential than me. The famous reputation of the Yukinoshita suggested they had connections everywhere. If any form of physical assault was imparted on Haruno's person, I'd probably be lined up and shot within the hour.

Thus, it was wise that I choose my next words very, very carefully.

'Haruno... I'm sorry, but I really need to get home. Komachi will worry about me if I don't get back soon, and there's still some classwork I need to complete.'

Absolutely nothing in the previous sentence had any semblance of truth whatsoever. In our household, I was on just about the same level as a speck of dust- in other words, it wouldn't make any difference if I was there or not, and most of the time the other inhabitants would prefer it if I wasn't. Komachi would worry about me, yes, but Komachi is the second prophet of the Church of Hachiman, the first of them being a certain Totsuka Saika, so that's to be expected. Besides, I'd dutifully informed her via text that Yukinoshita and I would be spending some time in the arcade, so if she got anxious to the point of genuine worry she could come and find me. Finally, I'd finished all my homework assignments for the week yesterday, and that hadn't been any new ones set on that day. Wow, aren't a model youth?

But Haruno didn't need to know any of that... not that she cared, anyway.

'You're still under the assumption that I had no reason for following you and my sweet little imouto here,' she purred, crossing her arms firmly over her crop top. Stop emphasising your assets, woman! Avert eyes! Avert eyes!

Damn it. Mission failed.

'Then why are you _really_ here?' I grunted.

'I'm here for _you,_ Hachiman.'

... Huh?

'What do you mea-'

'How about we play a game, Hachiman?'

Before I could protest, Haruno was already walking over to the right side of the arcade. Most of the games were wholly visible, but there were always a few that you had to play inside a kind of large, black box. Often, they were like this to emulate the experience of sitting in the back of an army or commando truck while shooting at zombies, or aliens, or whatever else the good guys had decided was worth obliterating into oblivion. The one Haruno had apparently chosen was one of these first person shoot em up game of this exact kind. It had a group of khaki clad soldiers posing in macho poses on the sides.

When Haruno, she gestured me to follow her with that irritating, plastered smile, and then climbed inside.

A fairly large portion of my brain was screaming at me with the ferocity of a banshee. Things like "You're going to die!" and "Run!" and "Don't be stupid!" and "God, Haruno looks awesome in short shor-" wait, what? Who said that? Definitely not me.

Like the absolute testosterone ruled moron that I am, I followed her over to the game, and stepped inside.

It was cramped and dark inside, with the only light coming from the game screen and the only sound being the obnoxious, pumping rock music and military sound effects, also coming from the game screen. Haruno shuffled over, allowing me to sit down, but ensured I remained uncomfortable on edge by moving within milimetres of me straight after.

'I bet you probably _dream_ of being this close to a beautiful woman, don't you Hachiman?'

Okay. As ideas go, following her in here was just about one of my worst ever.

'So, what did you want to say?' I said cautiously. 'If possible, could you make it quick-'

'I wanted to talk about us, Hachiman.'

'Us?'

'Our relationship.'

'Ha ha. You're the funniest, Haruno. Can I go n-'

'You're going to stay exactly where you are, Hikigaya Hachiman.'

That was not a statement. That was an order.

I remained in my seat, hands nailed to the game seat, ever so slightly petrified.

'The truth is, Hachiman...' she sighed, almost wistfully. 'I have something of a confession to make.'

I remained silent.

'Ever since we met, I've found you interesting. At first, I thought it just because of your interactions with little Yukino- it's rare that she opens up or trusts anyone, and you were one of the select few who ever managed to break down her barriers. Of course I'd be curious.'

She smiled, and gave me one of her "playful" punches. 'Despite your whole solitary independence thing, you really have a way with girls.'

I snorted nervously. 'If this is a joke, it's a very longwinded and very unfunny one-'

'Do I sound like I'm joking?' she said, somewhere between sickeningly sweet and... menacing.

'...' I didn't have a clue what to say.

'But as time went on, I started to become a little _more_ curious. What was it that Alice said in that old Western kid's book...?'

'Curiouser and curiouser.'

'That's right! Gosh, you're so _clever,_ Hachiman.'

'T- that's a pretty famous quot-'

'Then... yesterday, I had something of a realisation.'

She turned and stared at me, directly in the eyes.

'I realised that I wasn't just curious anymore.'

Her eyes. There was no bright, cheery spark within them.

She was deadly serious.

This _wasn't a joke-_

Before I could fully process the gravity of the situation transpiring in front of me, Haruno had begun to close the distance between us. I watched on, horrified, as her arm snaked around the back of my arm, coming to rest on my right shoulder. She used the grip to force our faces closer together. Her chest started pressing up against me.

'What are you doi-'

'Ssshhhh...' She pressed her index finger to her lips. 'Don't you know it's rude to interrupt a lady before she's finished?'

She stretched out her right thigh, the one closest to me, draping it over my leg. It was smooth and well toned and slender but muscled. I swear my face was on fire. My eyes had widened to the size of a crater. Sweat was beginning to emerge on my arms.

'I realised that I didn't just want to find out about you... I realised that I _wanted_ you, Hachiman. I realised that I didn't want any other girl to so as much as look at you. Especially not my _pathetic_ excuse for a younger sister.'

Her leg moved again, pulling herself up into a crouching position, both her knees on either side of my own. Her bust was in line with my eyes, and she looked down on me from above, hands painting circles on my back, backside hovering dangerously close to my lap. I still couldn't move, too stunned to even contemplate what was happening.

'You're mine, Hachiman.'

Suddenly, I could feel the denim fabric at the bottom of her short shorts against my belt. Suddenly, I could feel her lips moving towards my own, slowly, seductively.

Suddenly, we were kissing.

It was only then that I reacted.

Moving as if my life depended on it- and it probably did- I grabbed her by the waist and shoved her off my lap. She yelped in surpise, and cutting anger, as I stood up and backed away from her, out of the game, eyes aflame.

'What the hell is wrong with you?!'

I swear I've never run so fast from someone in my life.

* * *

 **1\. The Wizard of Oz**

 **2\. Sondheim**

 **3\. Sailor Moon**

 **4\. Steins Gate**

 **5\. Doki Doki Literature Club**

 **6\. Pokemon**

 **7\. Horizon Zero Dawn**

 **8\. The Crucible**

 **9\. Great Expectations**

 **10\. James Bond**

 **11\. Audition**

 **12\. A Silent Voice**

 **13\. Katoura-san**

 **14\. The Simpsons**

 **15\. Romeo and Juliet**

 **16\. A staggeringly unfunny comedy.**


End file.
